Reckless Season Two
by Adam the Red
Summary: The civil war is over in New York City. Her friends drifting away and surrounded by veterans she has sworn not to harm, the slayer begins to think it may be too quiet in the city that never sleeps.
1. Gratitude Part I

Reckless Season 2

Gratitude: Part I - Act 1

_Eighteen months earlier..._

"Ma'am?" A hand shook her shoulder. Suddenly there was a brilliant light in her eyes. Was she dead? "Ma'am, can you hear me?" Can I hear you? Of course I can–

"-sir, here's another one."

"Ma'am, the ambulance is on its way," repeated the gentle voice. The bright light shifted and partially illuminated the face that belonged to the voice. "Just hold on, everything'll be alright."

Meg nodded to the best of her ability, her surroundings solidifying and the pain along with it. She let out a low groan as she tried to sit up.

"Easy," the policeman comforted, sliding a hand around her shoulders. He helped her sit up and Meg looked around, trying to figure out where she was. How she had gotten here. The answers to either of these questions didn't seem forthcoming. "Watkins," the comforting voice called out to someone in the darkness, "get these people some blankets."

Half an hour later, Megan Brandon sat wrapped in a blanket in the back of one of many ambulances, sipping a steaming cup of tea. Red and blue and white flashed all around as the warehouse swarmed with detectives and uniformed officers.

"What happened?" she was finally able to ask once the medics were finished with her.

The man who had found her stood with a notepad next to her and a group of several others. "That's what we're still trying to find out, ma'am," he answered, never lifting his eyes from the page.

"Miss," Meg corrected absently, taking another sip of her tea.

"Whatever you say ma'am," the officer nodded. "I'll need to ask you some more questions later, if that's alright with you." Meg didn't answer. "Ma'am?"

"How long were we in there?" she asked quietly, her eyes flitting over the hundreds of people huddled in blankets in the parking lot outside the warehouse. The sun was setting and around the perimeter that the police had formed, flashbulbs and boom mics could be seen.

"We're working to determine that as we speak," the officer answered noncommittally. "Several of you have been reported missing, so I would say several days on the conservative end. You're lucky you were found when you were. The emergency rooms are overflowing with injured."

"Injured?" Meg asked lowing her tea to catch the officer's glance. The officer didn't seem inclined to elaborate so she changed the subject. "Who found us?"

The officer looked up from his pad, then glanced around the busy parking lot to the blond haired man in the tan jacket. "He's over there. Said he heard screams coming from inside."

Meg stared at the man from across the parking lot. There were several officers standing around him taking depositions and it was clear several television cameras were eager to get to him. Even from this distance, there was something about him. Something about all of this that she couldn't put her finger on.

"What's his name?" Meg asked as the officer turned to move away. The policeman turned back and looked down at his pad. He flipped a page and then shrugged, drifting away into the sea of blankets and uniforms.

--

_October 1987, NYC_

Logan Kilpatrick held his briefcase in his left hand, his suit in a dry-cleaner bag draped over his arm and his right hand out into traffic making irate little gestures trying to indicate he wanted to cross. His car was within sight, but the crosswalk was in the wrong direction and he was in a hurry. The briefcase was slowly tearing his arm off.

"Goddammit!" he shouted as he jumped back from the spray from the truck that sped past.

"Hey," said a voice behind him. He ignored it and took a step into traffic, willing to risk body damage to as many taxis as was necessary to get across the road. He was going to be late. Again.

"Hey," the voice repeated as the woman stepped closer, holding her umbrella over her head in the slight drizzle which promised more rain. "You're the guy," she said curiously, staring intently at his profile as he continued to ignore her.

"I'm a guy," Logan agreed when he realized she was not going to leave. "The city's full of us."

"You're the guy who rescued us from the warehouse," she stepped closer and held the umbrella over them both. "I know because I recognize the jacket."

Logan glanced down at his soaked khaki jacket. "The city's full of them too."

"It is you, isn't it?"

Logan made no answer, but saw his break in traffic and dashed onto the wet street.

--

Niki was slouched over her drink in the deepest corner of the club. She missed the Nail Biter. Without Diego to run it, it had closed several months ago. It had been the last demon bar in New York with class. The Slayer didn't need to look around to know her new hangout was no demon bar. She had been here, years ago, with Toe Tag City. She almost smiled at the memory. She had first tried Stuff in the car over here. She had lost her virginity to the lead guitarist in the alley after dusting a vampire. Then she'd been arrested... Such fond memories.

The Marionette didn't have much going for it besides the occasionally good band. The liquor was watered down and could have been mixed by a monkey. And, naturally, they had never heard of Stuff.

Niki took another sip. At least it was a break from all the boredom. For the past six months, since most of the inner city's demons and vampires had been wiped out in the battle against the Creep and his Nosphorus, there had been many nights without a vampire sighting. And often when she did come across a vampire, he or she was a veteran of the battle and carried the silver bracelet. Niki cursed the idea of the bracelets. Given as incentive for the vampires to fight on the side of the Slayer, now they were reminders of those she wasn't allowed to slay. Now they were being flaunted. Not that she wanted to slay the allies who had made victory possible... she was just so damn bored.

Keller had left two months earlier, just when the sex was getting good. Said there wasn't enough work in the city any more for his unit and they were being ordered back to Europe. Of course, she couldn't come. The Council wouldn't hear of it. They probably wanted to keep as many oceans between them and her as possible.

Niki Valtaine tipped her glass to her lips but only a drop hit her tongue. The glass came back down on the table with a sigh.

"Can I get you something?" a voice asked.

Niki slouched further over and shook her head. "Not unless you want to carry me home."

The figure nodded. "Good, cause I don't work here anyway."

Niki frowned and glanced up from her depressingly empty glass. The figure set a bowl of cashews down on the table and set his fedora next to it. "Whistler?" He said nothing but began eating the cashews.

Niki smiled and leaned back in her chair. "How was Asia?"

"A lot like New York City," the demon answered between mouthfuls. "Except with more Asian people." He munched a handful and then remembered. "Oh– and great food."

"What brings you back here?" the Slayer prepared for the bad news. But the demon shrugged.

"The miracle of flight." He munched. "And the hotdogs: Buddhists can't barbecue to save their lives."

"So... no bad guys? No demons you're here to warn me about?" Niki felt the worried anticipation turning to disappointment. The boredom didn't seem to want to let up.

"I didn't say there weren't any bad guys," the demon defended. "They just don't happen to be the reason I'm back."

Niki clapped her hands together. "Great, who are they and where can I find them?"

Whistler sighed, finding the bottom of the nut bowl. "The Deceivers... and I expect they'll find you."

Niki nodded. "Okay, and how do I kill them?"

The demon slowly took up his hat and set it on his head. His motions were slow and simple. Finally he locked eyes with her for the first time since he sat down. With a shrug he shook his head. "They're the first and only of their kind: how is anyone supposed to know how they're to be killed?"

Niki frowned. "Well, you're a big help."

Whistler shook his head. "I'm not really here anyway."

Niki blinked. "Uh, come again?" Then with a shock she awoke from the dream and found herself tangled in her sheets back in her room. With a groan she collapsed back into the pillow. She wished her slayer premonitions would quit depicting her like an alcoholic. A glance at the clock told her the time of night. Scrunching her eyes closed she managed to get back to sleep.

--

Logan tried to balance his briefcase, suit and bag of groceries while trying to open the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the porch light snapped on in the twilight. He calmed himself with a sigh and seized the doorknob with two fingers. He wasn't sure why he had become so jumpy lately. He hadn't seen any of them in several months. That was the way he liked it.

As Logan wrestled with the physics of the common doorknob, he reflected on how normal his life had become again. With no more late nights at the "office" or "business trips" he was actually making headway toward his promotion at work. Soon he would be assigned to the bigger cases. Pass a few tests and he would be in criminal court before the end of this year.

Then he felt it. With a smile and the click of the bolt, the door opened. The warm air washed over him and the homely glow of the kitchen and wonderful things cooking therein greeted his senses. He turned to dump his work things in the living room and nearly ploughed into his daughter Hanna. He caught himself before swearing –as she would surely tell– and ducked to the side to let her pass. As his life was getting more normal, she was getting ever more moody and sullen. With all the time he had been away last year he smiled: thank God I didn't miss her teenage years.

Turning around from the coffee table with only the groceries he came face to face with Rachel, his wife, who was standing before him, holding up a letter of some kind. She did not look pleased. Oh... Sh–

--

Gratitude: Part I - Act 2

"When were you going to tell me about this?" Rachel held the unfolded letter in front of Logan's face.

Logan's mind raced with excuses. He couldn't see what it was, but he had a few guesses. After all, he had been living a second life for almost a year. Eventually Rachel would figure it out.

"Uh," he began, his eyes blinking rapidly. "It's not what you think–"

"It sure as hell better be," she frowned. She glanced at the letter again and then back to him. "You're getting the promotion, right?"

Blink. Promotion. Right. "Oh, yeah. I am getting a promotion–" Too late. Poor recovery.

"What did you think I thought it was?" Rachel's frown deepened. She dropped the letter to the coffee table and crossed her arms. "What are you not telling me?"

Logan swallowed. Way to dig your own grave. "Umm," he stammered. Rachel was looking less impressed with every passing second of hesitation. Then the answer sparked into his mind. "Honey, do you remember the warehouse?"

Now it was Rachel's turn to blink. She glanced into the distance as the memory of her husband's 'heroism' was recalled. "You mean when you found all those hostages last year?"

Logan nodded. "Right," he sighed. "Well, one of them tracked me down today - that was why I was late—" only a little white lie "—and I was afraid they were sending me letters. I didn't want to worry you."

Rachel was in fact looking quite worried. As she understood it, Logan had stuck his neck out for over a thousand drugged and injured people whom he had found in a warehouse... considering the police had never made any arrests, it was dangerous to be recognized as the one who had liberated them.

"But," Logan interrupted her thoughts, his own memories of the battle which had been the real cause of those casualties filling his head, "since it isn't a letter from a devoted fan, there's nothing to worry about."

Hanna poked her head in from the front hall, eager to pounce on her father in any argument between her parents. "What are we worrying about?" she inquired.

"Nothing," Rachel said gently, her arms now uncrossed. "We were discussing your father's promotion."

Logan shrugged. "I don't have it yet."

"You will," his wife smiled, drawing him into a hug. The embrace lasted long enough for Hanna to scoff with teenaged disgust and retreat to the kitchen. "Come on," Rachel said at last. "Food's getting cold."

--

Niki poked the small key into the lock and opened the door to her mailbox. Inside was the small but adequate cheque from the Watcher's Council. It paid for rent and groceries and not much else.

As she reached in for it her eyes turned to look out the glass door to the street where she saw the sight she had been expecting since the dream.

Whistler stood on the sidewalk under the umbrella of a hotdog stand apparently arguing with the vendor. This made her smile and she closed the mailbox, the cheque in hand. Her smile slowly faded as Whistler, his hands gesticulating passionately, drew a knife and began to gut the vendor in the middle of the sidewalk.

Niki closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief and once she opened them the scene had returned to Whistler gesturing at the poor excuse for a New York hotdog and the uninjured vendor indicating the poor excuse for exact change with which Whistler had paid.

The frown still present, Niki left the lobby and returned to her room, her mind searching for not only the cause, but also the meaning of the hallucination. Had it been a vision? A premonition?

The Slayer had never experienced premonitions in the form of daylight hallucinations before.

She decided, after a night off because of slow business, to also take the day off from her job-hunt and take a stroll through the park.

It was an absolutely spectacular day. After last evening's drizzle the ground was a little spongy but the grass was a brilliantly fresh green and everything sparkled. Each color was enhanced as it it always is when wet: the traces of late summer dust washed away.

With the fresh air in her lungs and the sun on her shoulders, Niki's troubles seemed far away and unimportant. She sat down on a bench which looked relatively sun-dried and stripped off her black leather jacket, leaving only her white T-shirt. Setting down the coat and closing her eyes, she let the warmth of the sun settled into her.

When finally the direct rays of the sun peeked out from the branches of the tree, Niki had to scrunch her eyes closed to keep from being blinded. She raised a hand to shield her eyes but a shadow had already fallen across her.

She opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing with her back to the bench, head blocking the sun, apparently stopped for a rest. The young woman had short dark brown hair and was dressed for this weather - unlike the Slayer.

Niki closed her eyes again, shifting her head into the shade of the surrounding trees when something made her open them again.

Staring at her now in the broad daylight was the young woman, her face contorted into the form of a vampire. Leering. Niki's eyes widened. All around the creature's mouth was bright red blood. She stared at the Slayer with an amused contempt until the wind blew.

With the rustling of the branches, the shade disappeared and the sun stabbed into both the Slayer's eyes, temporarily blinding her. When the afterimages had disappeared, Niki was alone on the side of the path, the woman nowhere in sight.

The Slayer walked home without another thought of what a beautiful day it was. Someone or something was trying to tell her something. Maybe it was her own instincts telling her things were too quiet. Maybe she was inventing enemies since she no longer had any to fight. Or maybe not.

Spending the rest of the day in front of the television, combing the news for reports of unexplained deaths, she cancelled her plans of drinking that night in favor of patrolling.

As soon as the sun had set, she stuffed some stakes into her pockets and hopped on the elevator down to the lobby. She had gotten less than a block from her apartment towards Central Park when she felt someone following her.

Her heart pounded and her senses were on fire. Finally some action! She didn't know how she knew, but this stalking creature was not one of the allies. The allies wearing the silver bracelets tended to stay away from her - they knew she was resentful of their immunity and didn't want to push their luck too much.

The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and her skin was tingling. With a fist gripping the pointed spike of wood, Niki ducked off into an alley to wait for her stalker to pass. Sure enough, the shape passed as a silhouette against the opposing street light. Everything about the sight and movement of the figure shrieked vampire. Niki waited a heartbeat before springing out.

It was over in the blink of an eye. Niki didn't even get a glimpse of the face of the vampire before she thrust her stake into its chest it had become a pile of dust on the concrete. She searched the dust for a moment, looking for the glint of silver. She found none. With a satisfied nod, Niki continued on towards the park and found no other vampire all night.

Waking up the next morning with a groan of satisfaction, she stretched out on her bed and squinted into the light of the sun which shone in from her window.

Bleary eyed and in search of coffee, Niki stumbled out of her room towards the kitchen. She wasn't sure what time it was, but it went Slay, Sleep, Coffee, Sleep, Bar... then she wasn't sure where it went, what ever 'it' was, but that order had treated her well so far, so she generally gave in to it. Now it was Coffee.

Plunking down on the couch in the living room, she switched on the television. The noon news was on –hinting at the time– and the percolating of the coffee maker could be heard.

The gurgling of the coffee maker filled the small apartment, making it seem as though there were someone else there – even more than the voices of the news anchor. Without that precious caffeine, Niki couldn't really call herself awake. It would be a lie.

They hadn't rounded up any suspects, the reporter continued. Gurgle, went the coffee. The smell of the beautiful coffee began to spread from the kitchen. Velvety. Smooth. Heinous. The crime last night was heinous, the reporter continued. Although there were no signs that the victim had been either robbed or sexually assaulted, the police weren't willing to attribute the murder to a random act of violence yet. There was always the possibility of a drug related—

Gurgle, sputter, went the coffee, as if to say 'pay attention to me.' Niki's eyelids were heavy and she had a great urge to go back to sleep. She sank into a more comfortable position on the couch: nearly laying with her feet up on the coffee table and only her head propped up to watch the TV.

She folded her hands on her stomach when she noticed something black on her fingers. With a frown she opened her eyes and then squinted to get a better look at it. The black mark covered her right hand in patchy splotches. It was dry but smudged when she rubbed it.

Gurgle, gurgle. The aroma of the coffee was overpowering now and she stood, turning up the television as she moved into the kitchen. She retrieved a big mug – the biggest one she had and set it down on the counter. It nearly slid off but she caught it, realizing she had set it on top of a black felt-tip marker. With a frown she set the mug aside and picked up the marker.

With infinite slowness, she looked from the uncapped marker to the ink on her hands. With a frown she glanced back towards the fridge and the whiteboard on which had been scrawled in her handwriting: Now you see our power.

Niki slowly looked back towards the counter where her coffee mug sat innocently. Beside it was the coffee maker. There was no coffee in the carafe, no water in the small tank and no smell of delicious coffee filling the room.

Niki blinked. She looked back at the whiteboard and its cryptic message. Then the words of the news anchor from the other room started to penetrate.

"To recap our top stories for this hour; a brutal murder on the Upper East Side last night has stumped police inspectors who can find neither motive nor suspects. The woman, who we are just learning was local area resident Megan Brandon was apparently walking home just after sunset last night when she was brutally attacked and stabbed once in the heart..."

Niki, her eyes wide and her body growing numb, slowly made her way towards the kitchen table where her black leather jacket had been dumped early this morning. With hands which refused to tremble, she emptied its pockets until she found the stake. Her shallow breathing ceased when she noticed – how could she have missed it last night? She hadn't been drinking! She hadn't tasted Stuff for almost a year! This wasn't fair! Yet the blood on the end of the stake would not be rationalized out of existence.

Niki swallowed. She slowly moved back into the living room and sat on the floor in front of the television, the stake clutched in her hands.

Beside the news anchor was the floating head-shot of Megan Brandon. Bright young aspiring law student. Recent survivor of the Atlantic Avenue hostage crisis. As Niki stared at the picture, the face of the woman from the park flashed before her eyes. The same woman. The Slayer leaned over slightly to look back into the kitchen at the whiteboard message.

Now you see our power.

Gurgle, gurgle.

--

Gratitude: Part I - Act 3

"Hey– hey, Kilpatrick" Eric called, his head sticking out of his office. "The Senior Partners want to talk to you."

Logan set his briefcase back down on some secretary's desk. "Very funny," he smirked and turned to go but Eric, though offended, didn't back down.

"I'm serious, didn't you get the message?" He raised his eyebrows as Logan considered how his machine was always chewing up his messages. He glanced back at Eric who gave an encouraging thumbs up.

Logan shrugged and took off his khaki jacket, taking both that and his briefcase back to his desk before straightening his tie and heading for the elevator. The Senior Partners were three floors up.

Logan adjusted his tie several times in the elevator, completely ignoring the flirtatious efforts of the young woman who happened to be riding to the same floor. Logan had never even considered having an office affair. Lawyers, at least the ones he knew, were treacherous. They wouldn't think twice about blackmailing him. Besides, he thought as he adjusted his tie again, he had more important things on his mind right now.

He exited the elevator ahead of the disappointed young blonde and approached the reception desk. The secretary took one look at him and waved him in. She touched her comm key.

"Mr. Kilpatrick is here," she advised. The doors opened and Logan strode into the simple conference room to find himself facing a man and two women who sat on the opposite side of the table to him. There was no chair on his side. These were the Senior Partners of Morgan, Lewis & Bockius. Logan swallowed. If he really was up for a promotion, they didn't look very happy about it.

"Mr. Kilpatrick, come in," the man in the center offered. Logan nodded gratefully and stood opposite him. "We've called you here as a special favor – we know you're hoping for a promotion and we recognize your potential..."

Logan's jaw tensed. The spark seemed to dim in his eyes. He could almost hear what was coming next. Unfortunately we currently have an excess of criminal defense attorneys in this branch but if a position opens up sometime in the future...

But the partners said nothing of the sort.

"Assuming you do pass all the necessary legal red tape and make it as a criminal defense attorney, you will have shown incredible..." the man's brow creased as he searched for a term, "...upward momentum."

The woman to his left nodded. "We will be announcing this to everyone in a short time, but we wanted to give you forewarning in case it affects your decision to press for the promotion." She took a deep breath and continued. "This firm is currently in the process of being taken over by a prominent law firm from Los Angeles." The other woman nodded.

"In less than eight months, we expect Wolfram & Hart to have reorganized the structure of this firm..." She swallowed. What she was saying was that in eight months, the three of them would be demoted to junior partners in a larger, more aggressive firm – or bumped out of a job altogether. "We thought you might want the chance, once you've completed your evaluations, to apply for partnership is another firm."

Logan's worry had turned to deep concern. His mouth was suddenly dry. "I... I don't know what to say," he frowned. "Thank you for this information, but I intend to stay the course in this law firm for as long as it exists."

The partners nodded and collectively they stood. The man in the center extended his hand and Logan took it. "I know you'll make an excellent Senior Partner one day." Logan nodded at the compliment and left as soon as it was convenient.

The drive home never saw the troubled frown from his face.

--

Niki didn't go patrolling that night. Nor did she lock herself in her room. She went looking for Whistler.

As it happened, he found her. Hiding in her usual corner of the Marionette, she was busy looking for him at the bottom of a shot glass. The premonitions got one thing right at least.

"Aren't you going to welcome me home?" the demon sat down with a cavalier smile. "Not even a 'how ya been' from my favorite Slayer?"

Niki took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I killed someone, Whistler. Someone who... who I don't think I was supposed to kill."

Whistler frowned. "Ya do realize you're talking to a demon, right?"

Niki scoffed. "You wouldn't hurt a fly," she dismissed. "The thing is, I think something or someone wanted me to kill her. It wasn't just a random accident." She held up a finger. "And I'm not going crazy."

Whistler held up his hands defensively. "Never said you were. Only a crazy person would think you're crazy... and we can't trust what crazy people say:" he tapped his temple "they're not quite all there."

"You said something about the Deceivers..." the Slayer stared off into the distance, recalling her dream.

Whistler frowned. "I did?" When he got no response, he shrugged. "I take it back: you're completely nuts."

Niki frowned again in irritation. "In my dream," she clarified. "You said they'd contact me." She sighed heavily and toyed with the empty shot glasses. "I think they did."

"How so?" the demon inquired.

"It doesn't matter," she waved a hand to banish the entire incident. "What matters is how do I find them and how do I kill them?"

Whistler shrugged when her gaze settled on him. "Don't look at me. I haven't seen a seer since the Biter closed down."

"No demon intuition?" It was a shot in the dark, Niki knew it, but it saved her from having to call Addison.

Whistler thought about this. Finally he broke into a little smile. "You could try stabbing them with sharp things. It works for almost everything else."

The Slayer sighed. "Thanks anyway."

Whistler tipped his hat. "Glad I could help." He looked around the small dark corner, searching for something. "When do they come with the menus?"

--

He wasn't dressed for this. He knew it. He ducked under the yellow 'police line - do not cross' tape and stopped in front of the young man who was photographing the chalk outline on the sidewalk.

"I thought you were all done here," he crossed his arms and frowned. They couldn't keep Park Avenue cordoned off indefinitely.

"Who are you?" the young man asked, lowering his camera and speaking with an unusually authoritative tone.

"I'm Inspector Zucher, who the hell are you?" This impudent young man was probably a defector for the press - Zucher hated those. They snuck in dressed like investigators and snapped a roll of pictures for the evening news.

"Agent Harrison," the young man replied curtly, retrieving his badge from his jacket, "Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"What could possibly interest you about this case?" Zucher demanded, shaking his head. One thing he hated more than the press was the feds.

"I'm afraid that's classified," Agent Harrison replied, returning his badge to his jacket and tucking his camera into the bag which hung over his shoulder. "But since you have no leads whatsoever, I think it's safe to say your case is going nowhere. The FBI, however, has confidential leads which point to several possible suspects living in Manhattan."

"Do share," Zucher suggested with an patronizing tone.

Harrison shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir. But rest assured, those responsible will be apprehended and dealt with."

Zucher shook his head with disdain. "Oh good. We're safe in the hands of the federal government." His sarcasm lost on the young agent, the inspector turned and left, ducking tiredly under the yellow tape and shoving his hands into his pockets in the cool evening.

A brisk walk took him back to his sedan he could make out a shape standing near the diver's door. As he drew closer, he was getting ready to unclip his holster when the form stepped out of the shadow. He was pale faced and dressed all in black. He had black spiked hair and silver piercings all over his face.

The Goth planted a cigarette between his lips and said in a toneless voice, "Got a light?"

Zucher looked down to check his pockets for his lighter, at the same time unclipping the guard on his gun holster. When he found the lighter, he looked up in time to see the Goth's hand strike out like a snake and seize his neck. Zucher struggled in vain and the Goth easily lifted him off his feet, a silver bracelet jingling as the black sleeve drew back.

There was no chance to go for his gun as the vampire threw him into the alley. It wouldn't have made much difference anyway. The Goth followed into the darkness and neither of them came out again.

Less than an hour later, the sedan was towed to the impound.

--

Gratitude: Part I - Act 4

Agent Harrison slowly put the file back on the dashboard of his car. His jaw slowly dropped. Impossible. This was... he stared into the abyss of the night and shook his head. This was impossible. The Cremator had been killed ten years ago. He had seen her body. He had seen her buried!

But the tell tale calling card was there. In that folder. This woman who had been killed —a murder which might have been overlooked— was a subtle clue to the web of disturbing and unexplainable murders which had been flagged by the Bureau for decades.

Either this was a copycat killer and the murder of Ms. Brandon had been a sloppy mistake... or the Cremator was back. Harrison swallowed.

In the darkness and silence at the heart of the city that never sleeps, a taxi tore past Harrison's car, heading East. In the back, as the taxi moved through Harrison's headlights, the agent could clearly see a young woman in a black leather jacket.

Without a second thought, he threw his car into gear and accelerated around the corner after them.

--

Niki stood by Whistler's side in the dim light of very early morning. It had taken ten minutes by taxi to get here. The darkness was just beginning to yield to the grey light of dawn. Before them was a small baseball diamond where several men were gathered.

The Slayer and the demon were standing out of earshot and out of sight. Niki was trying not to fall asleep on her feet.

"What are we doing here?" she asked tiredly, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her.

"These guys are new in town," Whistler informed her.

"The Deceivers?" Niki prompted, carefully drawing her short sword. But the demon shook his head.

"Nah, just vampires. I followed them in here from JFK." He turned away from them and tugged his fedora down to cover his face as a pair of vamps walked past them to join the group.

Niki wasn't so interested in concealment. "Then let's get slaying—"

"Not so fast," Whistler took her arm, covering the gleam off her sword with his plum jacket. "Don't you have a code of conduct?" To her quizzical glance, he lifted something out of his jacket pocket. "You've sworn not to slay vamps wearing these, haven't you?"

Niki glared at the small silver bracelet. IXI. "Where did you get that?"

Whistler cocked his head. "I bought it for sixty bucks from some schmuck at the airport."

The Slayer was exerting a great deal of effort to continue to remain inconspicuous. "So you're telling me that every vamp— they've all been playing me?"

Whistler shrugged. "Well I can tell you that these guys here certainly didn't shed blood for your side in the Civil War." He dropped the bracelet into her hand. "What did you expect would happen? Giving carte blanche to anyone with a bracelet... Terrible idea."

Niki ground her teeth. "I didn't hear you complaining a year ago!" Without another word she pulled her sword from where it was hidden inside his jacket and charged the group of vamps.

--

Brian Harrison kept his head down as he watched the scene play out before him. The suspect was engaging a group of at least ten, armed with what looked like a sword. Instead of running away, the men were rushing her and one after another were being decapitated.

Harrison's eyes widened as one after another they turned to dust. He had been searching for this person half his career. She could incinerate a person at will. Leaving no evidence or DNA. The victim couldn't even be identified. The perfect murder.

The FBI had been tailing a serial killer they had named the Cremator as far back as the mid seventies. He had followed the woman who they had pegged as their main suspect here to New York City where she had been killed in a random fight on a subway.

That was ten years ago. Harrison had been convinced the murders would end when out of nowhere they started up again. He had found no leads until the murders had shifted back to New York a few years ago. Either Nikki Wood was not the Cremator serial killer or this new girl was a copycat.

He had personally seen the Cremator, or who he had thought was the Cremator, impale someone on a sharp stick. The person had promptly been incinerated. When he had seen the murder of Megan Brandon and the ME's autopsy report, he had feeling the Cremator was back. Why had Megan not been burned to ashes like the rest of them?

Harrison shook his head. The crazy bitch was leaving clues. On purpose. She knew he was following her and she was taunting him. No one at the Bureau would believe him. How exactly did she incinerate people? they would laugh. Does she shoot fire from her eyes like Superman? He grimaced as she finished off the thugs with the sword, strolling away from the cloud of ashes. Whoever she was, he vowed, he would take her down. No matter what it took.

--

Logan smiled in his sleep. They were all back at the beach. The sun was bright and the ocean was cleansing. The butterscotch ripple ice cream was dripping. Hanna was laughing; bright and sunny laughter, like he remembered it when she was six.

Rachel was smiling. She was smiling at him. No more suspicion, no more resentment. They were a family again. For one perfect weekend they had been a family again.

Logan rolled out of bed. He wasn't sure what woke him up, but it couldn't have been for no reason. Then he heard something else. A door closing. He swallowed. Training his ears, he listened to the deep silence of... he glanced at the clock... 3:16 am.

A muffled scream jolted him into action. His heart pounding and his adrenaline surging, he raced down the stairs to the front door which was standing ajar. Rachel rolled over in bed, mumbling something in her deep sleep.

On the front lawn in the darkness played out a scene from Logan's nightmares. Hanna was struggling against the grip of several laughing vampires. Tears streaked her face as they pawed at her and tore her pajamas.

None of them saw him as he raced out the door, fury and terror competing for dominance in his mind. Before any of the vamps could turn around, he had body checked one halfway across the street and shoved a second to the ground. He delivered a vicious kick to the face of a third and felt something familiar and unwelcome building in him.

Logan closed his fists to conceal the incriminating light he knew was beginning to spark between his fingers as he vaulted over one of the vamps and snatched Hanna from the grip of the last two.

Their faces morphing, Logan hid his daughter's face from the sight. With a hiss they began to spread out to circle him. The three who had been knocked down got up with snarls.

"Honey," Logan said through clenched teeth and with a trembling voice, "don't look." She nodded into him as he hugged her tight.


	2. Gratitude Part II

Gratitude: Part II - Act 1

Almost as soon as the light show started, Hanna found the courage to open her eyes. She didn't close them again all that night.

With a fearsome look overcoming him, Logan swept his arms to either side, releasing the attack upon the creatures that dared frighten the most precious thing in his life. The force made his fingers bleed, his tendons and veins standing out on his wrists. The vamps caught in the torrent were swept away in clouds of glowing ash.

Logan took the opportunity to clutch his daughter's head tighter to his chest with one bleeding hand while striking out with an invisible fist at the confused and enraged vamps.

The vamp who had torn her pajamas made a rush towards Hanna, convinced he could still score some cherished blood from this encounter. In motion like a choreographed dance, Logan's hand was at the vamp's throat even as the creature's hand was on Hanna's sleeve. The burning of the man's hand in an instant melted through the vamp's undead flesh and dropped him into a pile of dust.

The rest of the gang, getting up with confusion and bitterness, scrambled away into the night. Logan let them go, knowing he had other responsibilities tonight above chasing down and killing these monsters.

Hanna, wide eyed and trembling, stared at the pile of dust which had been her attacker. His hand had been solid and real on her arm a moment ago. Now it was not. Her gaze didn't budge until she felt oddly warm hands on her cheeks, tilting her head up.

Logan stared down at his beloved with an intensity that only increased as he took in her fear. She was afraid of him. He felt the blood between his fingers leaving marks on her face. His fingernails burned like they had been dipped in acid and his head throbbed. Yet he had never felt so alive.

"Honey," Logan Kilpatrick said gently, softening his eyes for her benefit, "what were you doing outside?"

Her lips were trembling, her eyes locked with his. "Sl- sleep– sleep w- wa–"

"Sleep walking?" She nodded vigorously. He sighed and cocked his head with resignation. There were stranger things that could get you eaten. He took his hands from her cheeks and wiped them on his pajama top. "Hanna, baby," he got down on one knee on the dew soaked grass and took both her hands in his. "Sweetie, can you keep a secret from mom?"

--

Niki stood in the early morning hours at the front entrance to John F. Kennedy International Airport. Whistler stood nearby, neither of them making eye contact. They would never find the bracelet peddler inside, especially with the sword tucked inside Niki's jacket, but once the hour got late enough, the vamp would have to leave his post to sleep for the day. It would have to be before sunrise.

Watching the entrance, Niki pretended to read a newspaper. Shares Plunge After Wall Street Crash, read the headline. Whistler was looking very interested in his shoes. Niki glanced at the doors then back to the paper. San Francisco: Earthquake Kills Nine. What a depressing world, she thought, no wonder I don't read the paper.

Then the scent of vampire caught her attention. Without looking at the door, she met Whistler's glance. He gave the most imperceptible nod and after several heartbeats, Niki folded the newspaper of depression neatly in half and stuffed it into her jacket. She turned and started after the creature Whistler had identified, a vampire wearing a brown trench coat and carrying a small canvas suitcase. He could easily have been peddling watches, she shook her head. No, he was selling something much more valuable. He was selling immunity.

She followed him out to the street where he hailed a cab and Niki was forced to watch as he sped away. But their cab was still idling and the driver was getting paid a bonus tonight. They were soon in pursuit.

Mere seconds after the first pursuit began, a second continued. A black Lincoln Towncar pulled back into traffic, its headlights disconnected and its driver staring fixedly at the occupants of the taxi just ahead.

--

Hanna's mouth hung open, her face streaked with her father's blood. "You're... like a wizard or something?" When he couldn't think of a response in time, a broad grin spread across her face. "That's awsome!"

"You cannot tell your mother, understand?" He held her shoulders tightly. Her fear had been all but forgotten.

"And those were... vampires? Real vampires?" Her eyes lit up. "That is so cool!" Her eyes shifted back and forth, considering the ramifications to her struggling social status. "Kirsty is not going to believe this..." Then the realization dawned on her and she frowned. "She really isn't going to believe this, is she?"

"Hanna," Logan gripped her shoulders tighter and gave her a little shake to bring her attention back to him. "You can't tell anyone, understand? Not Kirsty, not mom, nobody. Got it?" When she looked reluctant to accept his admittedly one-sided terms, he waved a bloodied hand before her eyes and just a spark leapt between his index and middle fingers. "You don't want to anger a wizard, do you?" Hanna shook her head at once, straightening up, following his hand with her eyes. Logan nodded, satisfied. "Good, now go inside and wash up before going back to bed. No reason to give your mother a heart attack."

The thirteen year old ran inside, leaving her father kneeling in the wet grass.

So, he breathed, the life had come after him. He had left it behind and it had come after him and his own. He knew it was stupid to think heros were exempt from hardship, but he had hoped Hanna would never need to know the realities of the world around her, especially where those realities applied to her father. But she was thirteen now, no longer the ten year old she had been when this had started.

These thoughts troubled the man who knelt in the dew that night. How could he be so cavalier about this? Dammit, his daughter had nearly been killed by vampires on his own lawn! Where the hell was the Vampire Slayer? Why wasn't she doing her job?

Maybe he had made the wrong choice leaving her. Hanna and Rachel had been safe when he was still practicing... when he was still with her. Certainly the marriage had taken a beating, but they had remained at least ignorant of what sort of mortal danger he had been in almost every night of his life. Now he had recommitted himself to his family and danger chose this moment to come to him.

But dammit, this wasn't his job! He'd just been dragged into it! He hadn't asked to fight vampires – well, no that was a lie. He had asked to help Niki. She had seemed so vulnerable and scared, faced all of a sudden with a world alone, a world of enemies. She had accepted his help, perhaps rightfully without a thought to his needs. But that was years ago. She was an adult now. A Slayer. She should be handling all this.

The scent filled his head. Vampire. They had sensed that he was down and were coming back for him. Hanna was safely in the house and they were not invited in...

Logan slowly stood as the forms emerged from the darkness around him. They were wary, some of them having seen his power. Others were there just for entertainment. Logan wiped the blood from his sore hands on his pajama bottoms and tried to build some kind of charge between his fingers. But he just wasn't feeling it. The vampires' faces changed.

Logan looked about at the slowly constricting net of creatures which surrounded him. He felt a bit light headed.

Suddenly there was the pounding of boots on concrete. One by one the heads turned as a vampire charged down the inky black street toward them, his brown trench coat fluttering open behind him. He dropped something heavy on the street and it broke open. He left it without a backward glance, heading for the safety of the vampire crowd.

Logan frowned. Then he saw her. Racing fast and lithe, Niki rounded the corner from where the car chase had ended and towards the fleeing target. The crowd of vamps saw her coming, took one look at the vamp she was chasing and scattered.

A broad grin spread across Logan's face. "Ha!" he shouted after them, throwing his now powerless fists after them. "That's right! Run like the little pussies you are!"

Niki launched herself and caught the fleeing vamp in the trench coat by the legs, bringing him down to the wet grass ten feet from Logan's lawn. Logan strolled up in the light of a street lamp as Niki was beating the non-living crap out of him.

"Where did you get them?" she demanded, her fists striking his face like clockwork. "Who gave them to you?" Thwack, thwack. "Who made them?"

"I- don't– nobody!" the vamp begged. Without a thought, she drew the short sword concealed down her back and drove it into his chest, all the way to the hilt, effectively pinning him to the soft ground. The vamp let out a cry of agony which was cut short as Niki clamped a hand around his throat.

"Tell me or I start cutting pieces off," she hissed, jerking the blade for emphasis. He whimpered and Logan nodded with appreciation. Niki had certainly become more... committed since last he saw her.

"Who made what?" Logan inquired, content to observe no longer.

Niki's glance jerked up with such suddenness there was an audible crack. "Logan!" she cried with delight, standing up, the vampire forgotten. Her eyes narrowed, then softened, then her entire physique acquired a confused air. She looked around; at the house, the street, the lamppost. "Is this Freeport?"

He nodded. "Good to see you again."

She wanted to hug him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to do... things to him. But he wasn't hers anymore. She had beaten that addiction. Slaying was her addiction now. Victory. "Good to see you too," she nodded, her voice quieter.

"Why're you chasing him?" Logan nodded towards the vamp who had unpinned himself and was making a mad dash for the darkness offered by a patch of trees.

"Oh- shit," Niki cursed, quickly pulling a stake from her pocket and throwing it like a dagger. With a gasp the vampire took the stake through the back of the heart, collapsing into dust on someone's lawn.

The Slayer sighed. "I was trying to figure out where he was getting his merchandise," she shrugged. "He won't be talking now."

"Merchandise?" Logan pressed, crossing his arms in the cool night air.

Niki clenched and unclenched her jaw as she considered telling him, then decided against it. He had opted out of the crew after the cover at Atlantic Avenue had left him drained for days. There was no blame in it - business had been slow anyway. No need to drag him into it now.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Logan nodded, knowingly. "It's okay. I understand." Niki swallowed and after a brief pause stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Logan rested his head on hers. "I've missed you too."

--

Gratitude: Part II - Act 2

"That is so lame," Kirsty scoffed, tossing her arrangement of blonde hair in a way which she knew caught the boys' attention.

"I'm serious! I think I could make up something a bit more believable than that!" Hanna held her sleeve up as several of her classmates peered at the claw marks on her upper arm. "There were at least ten of them and my dad totally kicked their butts."

"Vampires?" Justin repeated sarcastically. "As in 'I vaant to suuck your bloood,'" he made a classic Dracula posture and pretended to lean in towards Kirsty's neck. She sneered and punched him lightly on the arm.

"She's just trying to get attention," Kirsty argued, turning away from the crowd which was admiring the deep scratches. "Come on Justin, we all know you could take her dad. She probably scratched her arm herself."

"Did not," Hanna countered, pulling her sleeve down again angrily. "And my dad could kick your wimpy boyfriend's butt, if he wanted to."

"Whatever," Kirsty shrugged, leading her toy away to class, the jock gladly carrying her books. Hanna glared at their backs until they disappeared down the hall.

"How do you know they were vampires?" a quiet voice asked from behind her. Hanna turned around and saw one boy standing still among the dispersing crowd. A little smile flickered across her lips. He was cute.

--

"Hmm," Whistler looked intently at the writing on the whiteboard of Niki's fridge. "Well," he said at last, "it looks like your handwriting."

Niki waited for more. None came. "Uh... of course it's my handwriting. I wrote it."

Whistler cocked his head. "Why'd you write Now you know see our power?"

The Slayer sighed and poured herself a cup of coffee. "I don't remember writing it!" she explained. "I think it's a message from the Deceivers."

"Ah," the demon nodded, now beginning to understand. Without another thought, he opened the fridge and stuck his head in. "Got anything good in here?"

"That depends," Niki answered, taking along sip of the delicious black liquid, "how long does it take milk to turn into cheese?" Whistler pulled his head out and slowly closed the door.

"I think I know someone who can help," the demon thought for a long time. "There's this guy in Queens who might know about the Deceivers."

Niki slowly set down her coffee and frowned. "Why haven't you mentioned this seer before?"

"He's not exactly a seer," the demon defended. "He's more of a..." the demon's eyes shifted quickly, then he swallowed. "Uh, never mind. He probably wouldn't be able to help anyway."

The Slayer raised her eyebrows. "Why, what is it?" She took a step closer and laughed. "Come on, you don't get to leave me hanging like this!"

Whistler sighed and studied the Slayer's eyes for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Alright, but this information comes with a warning." He now saw that he had Niki's full attention. "The guy is a... a prophet."

Niki frowned. "Uh, like... Ezekiel?" She shook her head. "Why is there a prophet in Queens?" The demon shrugged.

"Why is there a prophet anywhere? To see the plays before they're played and do his best to level the field."

Niki took on a sardonic look. "Like you?" Whistler merely smiled. "But don't prophets see way, way into the future?"

The demon nodded. "It's not as though they can see whatever they want to see. There's some pretty hefty power behind them - direct communion with the Powers, I would think."

"So why would you have thought of him knowing about the Deceivers?" Niki turned and took up her coffee again, letting the warmth of it radiate from her core and melt her chilled fingers.

"Well this particular prophet happened to be a very wealthy business mogul," Whistler explained, "until random bad luck seemed to take him down. So, thanks to the Deceivers, he now lives under a bridge and panhandles to stay alive."

"Tragic," Niki agreed with little sympathy. "How do the Deceivers cause bad luck? Had him walk into an executive meeting without pants or something?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Whistler threw her an amused look. "They had him enter into an arrangement with a business man - a friend of mine, actually." He sighed, crossing his arms. "That's the true power of deception. If they wanted to, they could make you think you're crossing the street, when you're actually stepping into the East River."

"I know the feeling," Niki said bitterly.

"But that's not usually their style. They don't like to leave things hanging like that. They know, as most demons do, that the world will tear itself apart with only a little encouragement." The demon absently opened the fridge door again and began rummaging. "Of course it's not in many people's interest to have a prophet wandering around, so for reasons no one had been able to pin down, our prophet entered into business with a corporate corruption demon: not really evil, just a force sent by the Powers to make sure people didn't get to confident in the Free Market." Whistler stopped as he found the milk/cheese. He quickly pulled his head out of the fridge and closed it a second time. "And oil prices dropped, Dow plummeted, and now he lives under a bridge."

"So why did you not want me to see him?" Niki hadn't forgotten Whistler's initial hesitation. "I would think he doesn't have anything to lose now."

Whistler turned and began sequentially opening cupboards and drawers, looking for something edible. "How do you survive, woman?"

Niki crossed her arms and frowned. "Whistler?"

The demon sighed. "Alright." He turned back to her with an almost sullen expression. "You've obviously never seen a prophet before. Not many people can resist the urge... if you know what I mean."

The Slayer scoffed. "What, to know the future? Come on, Whistler, I've been to see your seer - what's the difference?"

The demon swallowed. "There's a big difference. Seers see... sometimes random things - they see snippets, sometimes useful, sometimes not. They don't know or understand what they see and they obviously can't control it. It's a gift, you could say, and it sometimes gives us a heads up down here." The demon took a deep breath. "A prophet... a prophet is never wrong. Never inaccurate. The apocalypse could be six hundred years away and with all the variables of human and demon behavior between then and now, they'll be right to the second, to the punch, to the shout. It's not a gift. Like I said before, it's direct communication with the Powers. It's a direct look at the Plan. And they may not be able to control it, like a light switch, but they're usually far from powerless." He waited for the Slayer to react and she finally uncrossed her arms and opened a cupboard behind her and handed him a box of cookies.

"And I'm not exactly going to win Self-Restraint of the Year award, am I?" Niki nodded. "Alright, I won't go and see him. But we have to find a way to take down these bastards before they have me running around killing innocents all night long."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," Whistler said between mouthfuls of cookie. "Like I said, that's not their style. They prefer to give a little push and let gravity do the rest. I'd be more worried about the innocent you've already killed."

Niki was silent for a long moment. "What should I do?"

Whistler shrugged. "Seeing as how 'I thought she was a vampire' isn't a valid defense in United States Supreme Court, I would recommend you don't get caught." The demon swallowed another cookie. "For now, get back to your life. Take down this bracelet trafficking ring – but do it carefully. Don't just stake the first person you see with silver on their wrist."

Niki nodded. "Don't be reckless, got it." As Whistler brushed the crumbs from his hands on his trousers, Niki took him gently by the shoulder. "Thanks, Whistler..."

The demon nodded. "It's why I'm here."

--

Harrison squinted into the binoculars, watching the playing of light and dark through the ninth storey window from his vantage point in his car across the street. She was up there, he knew. The insanity of this case hounded him. If she just killed normally, he could have arrested her back in Freeport. But no body: no case. It would be his word against hers. And he wasn't exactly popular with the bureau right now. Maddeningly enough, he might just have to tail her until she killed again without incinerating the body. By then, of course, she would have disposed of any evidence tying her to Megan Brandon's murder.

Harrison clenched his fist. And the goddamned A.D.A. couldn't get him a warrant to search her apartment. He had no problem just poking around while she was out, but since the likelihood of catching her red-handed was slim, they needed everything to be in order for a conviction. Too many criminals got away on technicalities.

Harrison slowly lowered the lenses and a small smile crossed his face. And the Cremator wouldn't be one of them: there was more than one way to get into a woman's apartment.

--

Gratitude: Part II - Act 3

Logan's fingers, wrapped in band-aids, tried futilely to flip through the pages of Aguilar vs. Felton. He hadn't even written the damn exam yet and his firm was already treating him like a criminal defense counselor. Aguilar vs. Felton was a transcript of an Establishment Clause case which Logan's associate, Eric Quinlan, had recommended he review.

"The most embarrassing thing you could do," Eric had warned him, "is miss precedent which could have won your case. It's only really once and a while that you actually have to work hard to win a case. By justice or jury, most cases win or lose themselves."

Logan slowly peeled back another page with his bandaged fingers. He prayed he'd never miss something like a violation of the First Amendment. Then he scoffed. Of course he wouldn't. It wasn't as though he was fresh out of law school. Well... he was fresh from some classes, but they didn't count. Tack the appropriate letters onto the end of his name, Logan smiled, ace the A.B.A.'s test and the bar was his.

He had thought it would be years before the firm assigned him the big cases, but ever since they'd become associated with that one client... their profits in the criminal sector had plunged. Now Wolfram & Hart sought to buy them up. Any way you looked at it, acquisition was like slowly being eaten by a python. Ambushed by poor management, constricted by deficit and finally devoured by the inescapable drive for synergy.

Obviously Morgan, Lewis and Bockius knew their heads were on the downsizing chopping-block and were trying to butter their bread a little, in this case Logan himself, perhaps in order to secure a better severance package.

Either way, Logan thought, flipping through the pages of Aguilar vs. Felton, the hostile takeover really only worked to his favor. The pages, however, kept sticking to the band-aids and he couldn't keep from being reminded of the remnants of his old life which had begun to track him down.

What was she doing right now?

--

Niki peeled the thin white T-shirt from her body which was still clinging to the summer's tan. White, as far as shirts were concerned, was silent and said nothing in particular about herself or her intentions. The black shirt which she now pulled on said plenty.

Niki sighed as she looked at her stubbornly still-tanned complexion in the old vanity. Retrieving some pale foundation, she began the tedious task of pretending not to have seen sunlight in decades.

Next, she violated her personal code of conduct and applied thick black mascara and Dried Blood Black lipstick. Finally, after the black nail polish had dried and Niki was feeling thoroughly gothic, she found several sets of appropriately cold looking earrings and within three minutes had them fed into her newly pierced ears.

With a blank expression and a slight touch up of eyeshadow, she pulled her black leather jacket back on, noticing how unusual it felt without the white T-shirt beneath it.

Into her pockets she added some weapons to those which her jacket already carried – a small, decorative dagger which she had swiped from some nameless demon this past summer, chrome knuckles, and something called the preditor; a cross between a hunting knife and wickedly spiked brass knuckles.

Stepping out of her bedroom, Niki came face to face with the demon. Whistler whistled in amazement.

"Whoa, I wouldn't recognize you – except," he frowned and took a step towards the blank faced Slayer, "your whole getup cries Goth while your hair still insists Punk."

Niki's expressionless face and serious tone were nearly as unrecognizable. "I am not dying my hair."

Whistler shrugged. "How bout this–" he pulled her hair back tight into a ponytail and secured it with the silver bracelet from his wrist. "There. It looks mildly painful so I doubt anyone will ask any questions."

"It doesn't just look mildly painful," Niki winced, touching her scalp. "But thanks, I'd hate to be found out too early."

The demon took a step back. "I know this whole thing isn't your style, and if you're lucky, that will work to your advantage: they'll never expect it. It may not be comfortable, but it's a lot safer than indiscriminately slaying."

"I feel like a corpse," Niki said sullenly, even the act of blinking now feeling unnatural.

"Good," Whistler smiled, taking her arm and leading her into the kitchen. "Now we have to make you smell like one."

--

JFK was not a place for mistakes or Plan B's.

Niki Valtaine strode through the various debarking people with the look of someone who didn't belong. Under the deathly and stoical exterior, her heart was pounding its strong disapproval. She would much prefer to be reckless and kill everyone involved with this operation, from the bottom up if necessary. But now that was dangerous. Now she knew their power.

She approached the person from behind. She could have picked him off from a mile away. He would be more careful since the recent death of his predecessor; in fact she was surprised he had been replaced so quickly. Then again, profit was a powerful motivator, even for them.

"Perhaps you can help me," Niki held her hands clasped behind her back, keeping her expression grim.

The vampire turned around with a critical expression, looking her up and down. "You smell like you've just fed–" he noticed the bracelet holding her hair back and scoffed, "and it looks like you've got what help I could give you."

Niki cocked her head in a calculated mechanical fashion. "I have several friends who will be arriving from Europe." She waited for what she deemed the right amount of time. "I wish to secure their safety once they arrive. I understand you can supply me with what they will need."

The vamp licked his lips and stroked his greasy, stubble-covered chin. "How many friends are we talking about?"

"I have sixteen arriving in the next forty eight hours," she allowed herself to blink for the first time since the meeting, mentally suppressing the infuriating sensation on her scalp. "And over one hundred and fifty arriving by the end of the week."

The vamp shifted and took on a sly grin. "Europe not been kind to your friends?"

Niki clenched her jaw. "Let's just say New York seems to be a safer haven with your business up and running."

The vamp narrowed his gaze and looked her up and down again. "Lot'a folk been worried lately. I wouldn't call the City safe, even with that trinket you got," he raised his chin and shrugged. "Only a matter of time fore the Slayer figures it all out. Is it really worth what I'm asking to protect your Euro-pals?"

Niki remained unfazed. "Family is family." To this the vamp conceded. "And you're not doing a terrific job of selling your product," Niki added, allowing herself another blink.

The vamp frowned for a moment, then broke into a grin. "You got me there. The thing is, I ain't got a hundred and sixty six deals on me right now. I'd have to get you a special shipment."

Niki closed her eyes and took on the look of an insulted serpent. "Perhaps I should be looking elsewhere. There are other, cheaper—"

"Look, I got them," the vamp insisted, opening his ratty trench coat, inside of which hung several bracelets; gold, silver, some inlaid with jewels, some with different Latin engravings. None looking precisely like the original IXI. "The only question is," the vamp tilted his head conspiratorially, "what sort of protection do you want?"

Niki cursed herself internally. This was a scam. Pure and simple. This vamp didn't have what she was looking for. He'd discovered that the Slayer wouldn't kill those wearing the silver bracelet. What he hadn't figured out was why. He'd taken the idea and run with it. He was selling protection from almost anything, the Council, the Plague, heartburn... you name it, he had a bracelet against it. He was worried because he thought if she and her hundred and sixty six friends figured out he was scamming them, they wouldn't forgive and forget. He was trying his best to get her to go away. She wouldn't keep him waiting.

"You stink of deceit, I'm taking my business elsewhere," she turned and could feel his sigh of relief.

"Your loss," he called out after her, slinking back into the shadows.

After ten minutes, she found a bench to sit down on and waited only moments before a man dressed in black and looking paler than death sat down beside her. He too wore mascara and lipstick but he was obviously more skilled at it than she, for his person radiated sophistication and fineness making her feel more and more like the fraud she was. She waited longer after he sat down before he finally spoke. When he did so it was without looking at her and she made no attempt to look in his direction either.

"I may have what you are looking for," he said simply. "How many and when?"

Niki decided it was best not to change her story. "One hundred sixty six – within the next forty eight hours."

She could tell that even with this cold character's untouchable calm, she had managed to surprise him. "How so many?"

"Family gathering," she said, not waiting too long, but not answering too quickly either. She was trying to juggle the mistrust she actually felt with the mistrust she assumed she was meant to feel.

The vamp slowly turned towards her, flickering his gaze over her entire, rather crude appearance. "I haven't heard anything about it. What coven?"

Goth vampires came in covens? Niki's hand tightened on a stake she kept in her pocket. Lie. Lie quickly.

"Slovakia," she said calmly. This seemed to reassure him. He was obviously not concerned about a coven so far out of the sphere of his influence. "How much and when?" Niki pressed with a stoicism which was the exact opposite of what she felt. If she had been fighting this vampire alone or if there had been any way at all that she could get away with dusting him, she wouldn't be so nervous. She really had nothing to fear from him, physically. It was the tension of the entire concept. Undercover. Incognito. It was actually quite exciting – in a way which left her entirely unsatisfied and itching for something to stab.

"Meet me here tomorrow after sunset. I'll take you to where we can make the exchange and decide on payment." Without another word, he stood and walked casually away, his hands deep in his pockets.

Niki waited until he was well out of earshot and let out the breath she had been holding for as long as she could remember. He would no doubt check her story. What would he expect in payment? Would he want to meet her coven? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

--

Gratitude: Part II - Act 4

Logan looked at his house in the twilight. He had never felt so proud of himself. And it was an honest pride. He could shout it out to the world if he wanted to. American Bar Association! The smile permeated him. It was a temporary, silly joy, he knew. It wouldn't last and it wasn't the greatest accomplishment of the twentieth century, but it was good enough for now and the smile just wouldn't leave his face.

He'd stroll in the front door, the smile displayed prominently on his lips and in his eyes. Rachel would wonder what he was so smug about. He'd tell her: he'd aced the bar exam. She'd congratulate him and they'd kiss. His smile would spread to her. She'd tell him how proud she was of him. Later they'd do much more thank kiss. Maybe Hanna should sleep over at a friend's house.

Now his promotion was guaranteed. Most likely before the merger, but if not, then definitely after. An increase in salary. A new car. A college fund for Hanna. Diamond earrings for Rachel - just because.

The house looked warm and cozy – inviting him in to indulge in the fruits of his labor. Inside would be the smell of something delicious cooking, a girl's gossip and a woman's laughter. Logan soaked in the perfection of this moment, wishing it would never end.

Of course it did.

--

Niki had spent the entire morning racking her brain for everything she knew about how a vampire thinks. What would a vampire want in payment? How would she get around her 'family' not showing up? What sort of a back story was believable but couldn't be confirmed or denied?

At three in the afternoon, she pulled a grubby old denim jacket out of the back of her small closet and with a little work did herself up to be a junkie, complete with ratty hair and track marks. Gazing at herself in the mirror, the frightening realization slowly dawned on her how convincing she looked. Might this have been what she would have looked like if Stuff had had its way? Or Toe Tag City?

Shaking her head to clear it of such negative thoughts, Niki easily found her way down into the subway where the junkie vamps and their enslaved fang addicts resided during the day. It didn't matter if she smelled like a human, Niki knew, the desperate were always welcome.

The only part of herself she recognized which she kept was the silver bracelet. Unlike the counterfeits sold by the scum at the airport or the contraband produced by the Goths, or even the mass-produced originals worn by the veterans, Niki's silver IXI bracelet was crafted by the Council and given to one it had truly agreed to protect. Niki had made no such bargain.

Pearce's bracelet hung loosely from the Slayer's wrist as she made her way towards the corner of the subway platform where the vamps hung out near the service corridor which ran alongside the track back to their lair.

The doors to the cars were all closing as Niki slouched down the wall into a sitting position near to one of the vamps and the homeless junkie girl who hung around him. Bloodletting from a vampire was as addictive as any narcotic, Niki knew. But the Slayer would do what was necessary.

"Hey," she rasped, rolling her eyes tiredly, "I'll give you this for a hit," she sluggishly pulled the bracelet from her wrist and threw it to the vampire's feet. She could see he already had one but pretended not to notice or care.

The vamp didn't even acknowledge her existence for several moments, staring listlessly towards the other end of the platform.

The human junkie scooped up the silver chain and looked at it through bleary eyes. She looked eerily like Niki herself. "What's it worth?"

"Ask him," Niki answered after a moment. "He's got one just like it."

The girl —Niki placed her somewhere between sixteen and twenty five— shook the vamp by the shoulder. "Braden, how much could we get for it?" When there was no reply, Niki asked him herself.

"How much did you pay for it?"

The vampire known as Braden slowly let his head move in the Slayer's direction. The universe in his eyes sang of despair. A tragic love song with no happy ending and no escape. After a glance, the vamp turned back to his junkie. "Send her to Mama Love and forget about it."

The junkie seemed to accept this and tossed the trinket back to Niki, curling up tighter against her vampire master. "He doesn't want it. Go away." Both the vamp and the junkie closed their eyes as if sleeping away some misery.

"How much could I get for it?" Niki insisted, slowly crawling closer to the pair. "How much did it cost you?"

Though the junkie seemed to have passed out from the exertion of the conversation, the vamp opened his eyes wider as the Slayer approached. Perhaps he could smell on her who and what she was. Maybe he was even scared, but he didn't move a muscle below his neck at her approach.

Niki's hand found his dirty shirt collar and she pulled him closer to her face, accepting with it the stink of his entire existence. The train pulled up to the platform and noise soon filled the air.

With a shaking hand, the vampire took Niki's cheek and turned her head to whisper into her ear.

"If you go to Mama Love, keep the bracelet—" his words were slow and difficult but each one spoke his tired sincerity, "—you'll need it then."

Niki turned back towards him and gave him a gentle shake, no longer trying to keep up the pretense of being a junkie. "How much did you pay for it?"

The vamp slowly closed his eyes and sank back against the wall. "It cost me... too much," he whispered. She let go of his collar with a frown. In the noise of the comers and goers, she couldn't hear but could see his lips moving. "This used to be a prince."

The words chilled Niki to the bone as she slowly stood from the two in the corner of the platform. If ever a vampire, in his state of living death, could be completely and utterly dead, this vampire was it. Dead now in all ways imaginable, but still able to take life.

Niki's hand was trembling as she slid the cold metal of the bracelet back onto her wrist. This bracelet had turned Pearce back into a prince. Completely free, immunity had given him back everything he had ever lost. That same bracelet had cost Braden everything. The prince and the pauper, created by the same stroke of the pen.

But Niki had her answer.

--

Niki made sure to stay out of sight in the shadows of JFK until the sun set. It wouldn't do to be seen basking in the dying rays of sunlight. When darkness had fallen, she found the same bench as last night and sat down without a glance around.

Some minutes later, with the Slayer's composure feeling the bombardment of the very living tension, the same gothic vampire from last night strode past with a single word. "Follow."

Led to a dark car idling in the front lot, Niki soon found herself in the back seat between two figures who looked like angels of death in the twilight. The car pulled away with the screeching of tires and, after a circuitous route which was no doubt intended to prevent Niki from ever following it again later, pulled up near the door of a neglected warehouse.

Niki soon recognized it as the setting for a Goth-Biker showdown she had instigated two years ago, mentally shivering to think she was now invited in as one of its residents. Always the fear seemed to follow her. She couldn't explain it to herself in her perpetual attempt to rationalize it away; it wasn't the fear of death. She knew she could handle herself. It was the fear of discovery. An irrational fear, since she could easily take all the vampires in this car, even at once. Even if the car was moving. That was the confusion that made her question her decision to go through with this: if she couldn't figure out why this entire situation terrified her so much, how could she be sure she was doing the right thing? How would she recognize legitimate danger if it should present itself?

The two vampires in black escorted her from the car and into the dark void that was the door of the cavernous warehouse. Immediately she cursed herself. She could easily recognize the legitimate danger now. Now that she was in it. There were uncounted gothic forms stalking the darkness all around. Dozens, hundreds, too many to count with just instinct. Niki swallowed. This could get bad.

Niki walked between the two angels of death, her scalp itching, her leather coat feeling more and more unnatural over her black T-shirt. In full gothic makeup again, Niki felt again like a fraud. At least as a junkie she could convince herself. Who was she going to convince tonight?

"Welcome to my home," said a polite voice. With a hiss a match was struck and a pale face was illuminated. The glowing red of a cigarette flared to life and the match went out. She heard him exhale and she took a deep breath.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she said with measured calm. He was silent; the only thing she could see of him was the tiny red spot of his cigarette which grew brighter each time he took a drag. "Do you have what I asked for?" she asked, standing as straight and tall as she could, knowing he could see her better than she could him.

"Not here," the figure admitted. "Here we will discuss payment. If we come to an agreement, you will be taken to where we keep the merchandise."

"You fear I might steal them?" Niki raised an eyebrow – something she was sure she had once seen a Goth do.

There was a note of amusement in the voice of the figure before her. "Not at all. I fear you may not be able to pay what we are asking, and so it would not be worth the risk of transporting so much merchandise here."

"Then I fear you may be disappointed," Niki ventured, her hands in her pockets, fingering the comforting razor sharp edges and wood grain.

There was a long moment of silence where the cigarette was discarded. "There is a lot of fear here then, isn't there?" the figure noted. "What are you offering?"

Niki could have sworn her heart had started pumping ice water. He had asked simply and she answered simply. "Nothing."

--

Logan's happy moment shattered as the bullets stated flying.

He fell to the ground and covered the back of his head with his hands. He could hear the squealing of several sets of tires as cars rounded the corner onto his street and accelerated away. The gunshots rattled out of the back window of the lead car and blazed from the driver's window of the tailing car.

Logan had heard enough gunshots to know that they were aimed at and hitting the other's car. With all his logic telling him he was not in fact the target, Logan scrambled up into a crouching position in time to see the cars disappear around the next corner at the far end of his street, fire spewing from the fire arm angled out the driver's window of the trailing black car.

--

Even though Niki couldn't see him, she could tell the ring leader before her was insulted by her answer.

"Nothing?" he demanded after a long silence.

"Nothing," Niki confirmed calmly, "but the gratitude of me and my coven."

"Your sense of humor has no place here," the figure said coldly. "I am a businessman and I do not appreciate jokes."

"And I don't care to tell them," Niki agreed, just as coldly. "You are in fact no businessman, but a criminal. Since the time of my initial interest, I have had a chance to find the true value of the merchandise you peddle. I found it in the gutter, with the filth on the subways, in the garbage of the alleys and the shit of the sewers. You have brought this poverty to the City, selling your immunity for a vampire's life! For a vampire's livelihood!" The thrill of the anger she truly felt coursed through the Slayer. "Had I the time, I could have pulled one hundred and sixty six trinkets from the dead who now litter this city. My coven arrives before the end of this night and they expect to see a vampire's paradise: a place free from the fear of the Council and its agents. Instead they will find a rank pit of despair created by your charming business."

Niki could feel the ring leader diminishing under her words. The fear of this night had somehow been transformed into an unparalleled thrill. "I expect they will be quite disappointed," she said between clenched teeth. "So in payment for your reckless enterprise, you will provide me with one hundred and sixty six of your ill-gotten products and I will in turn attempt to prevent my coven from decimating your despicable business. In the best possible case, I will have secured their gratitude." She allowed a heartbeat for that to sink in. "So again I offer you: My gratitude and that of my coven."

Niki felt the warm blood between her fingers and the cuts on her palms from gripping the knife blade so tightly. There was a cold sweat on her brow and she hoped it wouldn't start revealing her tan.

"Take her," the leader ordered, his voice thinner and devoid of its previous confident power. "Give her whatever her coven desires."

Niki bowed stiffly and turned back to the entrance to the warehouse. The two angels of death escorted her back to her seat where she now felt much more like the driver than the passenger, all thoughts of fraud erased from her mind.

The car eased back into motion, taking a longer rout in the darkening evening to the undisclosed location where the bracelets were being housed, and perhaps where they were being manufactured.

After uncounted minutes on the road, the vampire on Niki's left leaned across her and whispered something into the ear of the one on her right. The one on her right nodded and leaned forward to whisper into the ear of the vamp riding shotgun. That vamp listened then turned around to look back. After a moment he reached down beneath his seat and retrieved a small automatic weapon.

Niki's blood ran cold. Had they discovered her? If they had wanted to kill a fellow vampire, a knife to the throat or a stake would do it, but a gun? They must have smelled the blood from her hands, realized she was human, or worse, realized she was the Slayer. Niki's hand took tight hold of the stake in her right pocket. She could finish the two beside her, but the one with the gun in the front seat would get some shots off. And then there was the driver...

Before she could think, the man riding shotgun rolled his window down and stuck the gun out, aiming it backwards. The inside of the car was lit up in a shocking and surreal series of directed explosions as the vampire emptied his clip at the black car which was trailing them.

Niki managed to twist around to see what was going on and saw a car a few seconds behind them with no headlights and a pistol aimed out the driver's window. She swallowed. The vampires in the back seat had no reason to fear bullets and so no reason to duck. Niki held herself straight in the seat as a bullet pierced the back window and exited the windshield at an angle bringing it so close to her head Niki didn't even want to think about it.

The bullets continued to fly as the cars swerved around corners through a residential neighborhood. Niki vaguely recalled chasing the first bracelet peddler this far and realized suddenly that the contraband production must be somewhere here in Freeport. That meant Logan was in danger. Another bullet tore through the windows as the car swerved around another corner.

The gunfire had nearly deafened the Slayer and she hoped the car following them would give it up already. She had no idea what the politics of the Goths business was, but they all seemed very calm and at least basically prepared for this situation. Then a loud pop accompanied a spurt of fire from the machine gun and the car following them swerved out of control off the road. Niki blinked as the vamp calmly returned the gun to its place beneath his seat and rolled up the window. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, though even if something had been said, Niki would not have heard it.

--

Logan slowly straightened up as the cars disappeared around the corner. Seconds later, however, he involuntarily jerked as a loud crash indicated an end to one of the cars. He swallowed. So much for a delightful evening.

He turned and brushed the grass from his dew-dampened suit, marching towards the cozy house to deliver the news which seemed less like the best news he had ever heard. What the hell was this neighborhood becoming?

--

Niki slowly got out of the car after it had reached its destination. The low building was a far cry from a warehouse, but the same feeling of neglect surrounded it. Though the architecture suggested it was actually used during the day and should perhaps be regarded with a little more respect than simply as the dwelling place of criminals, the darkness beyond the open door seemed in that moment darker than any midnight Niki had ever seen.

Walking as if through water, Niki followed the angels of death as they disappeared into the inky blackness. Then that blackness swallowed her too.

To be continued...


	3. Enterprise

Enterprise - Act 1

Rachel rushed out the door to find Logan brushing himself off. He immediately recognized the fearful and confused expression she tended to get whenever these sorts of random things happened.

"It's okay," he said gently, "let's not make a big deal about it. Just a car chase– yes and gunshots," he added before she could cut him off, "and half the neighborhood will have called the police by now, so let's just go inside and have some dinner."

"Dad, are you okay?" Hanna called from the partly open front door.

"Hanna, go back inside right now," Rachel commanded, pointing to emphasize, but the girl's worried look was fixed on her father.

"I'm fine honey," Logan said with a half smile, "go on back inside, I'll be there in a minute."

Once Hanna had disappeared again into the glowing warmth of the lighted house, Logan and Rachel made their way toward the front door. Rachel smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't scare me like that!"

Logan made a little sarcastic frown. "It was a car chase, honey; I don't think there was much I could have done to prevent it."

"All the same," she warned, "this neighborhood is getting more and more dangerous every year."

"Well, in a few months, if I get this promotion, maybe we can afford to move..."

Rachel kept the sour look as she stepped through the door into the deceptively warm looking house. "Well it won't be soon enough."

Logan let the door close with a sigh.

Standing near the hedge was a figure robed in darkness. The warm glow from the house's windows stung his eyes and the smell of happiness was offensive. He bared his fangs.

--

Niki blinked rapidly in the darkness of the building into which the Goths had led her. She could smell that this was no warehouse. Carpet. Cheap fabric office cubicle dividers. Toner. She walked as naturally as she could in the direction she hoped the Goths were leading her. Eventually she felt space open up around her and when a series of lights flickered on, she found herself in a drab conference room.

With a stoic Goth on either side of her, she looked across a plain wood table at three vamps. The center one was the most ornately pierced and also had a black snake tattoo running up the side of his neck onto his face, whose head was turned and looked like it was about to bite the vamp's eye. His hand rested on a large black case which sat on the table.

Niki suppressed a pang of disappointment. This was not where the bracelets had been manufactured: There was neither metallurgical equipment nor magical paraphernalia with which to create them on a large scale. In fact, there was no evidence that the Goths spent any time here at all. Just a meeting place.

After eyeing her for a moment, the tattooed vampire unbuckled the case and opened it on the table. He reached inside and drew a small, black, silk bundle. Unwrapping it he offered the silver bracelet for her to inspect.

"One hundred and sixty six," he said calmly, his hands resting again on the case. Each one no doubt crafted meticulously, individually wrapped in silk and transported here from... where? The Slayer cursed her naiveté. Of course they wouldn't do business on the factory floor. She thought quickly.

"How do I know they will pass inspection by the Slayer?" the words sounded odd in her mouth. How exactly did vampires speak of her when she wasn't around? Were they afraid of her? Did they show some kind of reverence, contempt or just plain hatred?

"Each one is crafted precisely to duplicate the original." The tattooed Goth tilted his head slightly as if this was an almost insulting question. "There is no way for a mere human to tell the difference."

"But the Slayer has a magical friend," Niki said quickly. "Are you saying he could tell the difference?"

The Goth with the snake was silent for a moment as he seemed to stare into the heart of the woman before him. "We thought of that," he said at long last, taking the silver trinket and wrapping it again in silk. "He is being taken care of. I assure you, your coven will be safe when they arrive provided they wear our product."

Niki's hands slid into her pockets. "That's all I needed to know." With a sudden blur of steel, she drew the vicious preditor from her pocket and sliced through the throat of the vamp on her right while simultaneously shattering the jaw of the vamp on her left with the tightly clasped brass knuckles. The two simultaneous shouts of pain accompanied the look of surprise on the face of the tattooed vamp and his two coworkers who quickly drew knives and leapt over the table upon the Slayer.

Niki was quick to jam the knife-like preditor into the ribs of the first, using his weight to drive it deep. She then launched his deadweight into the other attacking Goth, discarding the brass knuckles in favor of a stake. In a flash the vamp with the blade still in his chest was dust and Niki was grappling with the second.

The Slayer was slowly bringing the tip of the wooden spike into position to thrust into his heart, her wrist still in his grasp, when the vamp's chest exploded and spattered her with blood. The vamp blinked in surprise. With another loud bang, another section of his chest erupted and Niki felt a searing pain across the top of her shoulder. The vamp she was fighting let out a grunt of pain as another bullet passed through him and finally Niki's stake found its way into his heart.

Through the ash which fell to the floor, Niki could see the tattooed Goth standing calmly behind the table, a sleek, silver semiautomatic in his hand.

"Enough" he said simply. The vamps on either side of the Slayer were slowly standing. One had his hand across his slit throat and the other was cradling his shattered jaw. Niki clenched her jaw. The fiery pain in her shoulder was starting to take up all her attention.

The Goth with the tattoo kept a perfectly stoic expression as the two escorts grabbed Niki and held her before the barrel of the gun.

"Any last words, Sl–" the gun exploded from his hand with a bright spark. Two more shots caught the tattooed vamp in the face and he was down. Niki couldn't tell what was going on until she saw a fist flying at the already shattered jaw.

With the second vamp's attention distracted, she jammed her elbow into his injured ribs and dashed for the door, feeling the presence of someone behind her. She ran all the faster. Once she was outside in the cool air of night, she side stepped the entrance and extended a foot. Sure enough, with a curse in the darkness, a figure stumbled over her foot onto the pavement, quickly rolling onto his back and raising his gun.

Niki squinted down at the figure with puzzlement. She had never seen him before. Tentatively she raised her hands. He wasn't a vampire. "Uh, don't shoot, please."

Harrison very carefully lowered his gun. She certainly didn't look dangerous, not carrying anything pointy. And she was injured.

--

Niki winced as the disinfectant was dabbed over the gash. The bullet had only nicked her, but that wasn't much of a comfort now. The Goths carried guns. This was something she would have preferred to know before getting involved with them. Since guns were rarely lethal to other vampires, unless shattering the spine, the only reason to carry them was protection against Niki herself. Although somehow flattering, it introduced another variable into her job. These weren't scum anymore. They were a high class enemy.

"So what were you doing in an office building after hours?" Harrison asked, dipping the cloth into the bowl of hot water. Internally, wheels were spinning. He tried to keep his eyes on the wound. It was difficult considering he was actually standing in the home of the Cremator. From what he had gleaned from the casual glace he had afforded himself, it was an average apartment. Perhaps a little messy and still hanging on to an age where floral was the way to go, but normal. Somewhere here, however, was the proof he needed.

"I could ask you the same question," she said, wincing as he cleaned the wound. She had invited him here primarily to avoid having to go to Logan for help. It wasn't a leap to assume this man had been the man in the car chasing them and shooting at them all the way through Freeport. What his interest was in the Goths or the bootlegging was what Niki couldn't figure out.

"I asked first," he said with a smile, wringing the water from the cloth and rummaging around in her cupboards looking for a bandage or possibly something incriminating. Unfortunately he found the bandages first.

Niki shrugged. "Just doing some dumb things with some bad people." She tried to plant an innocent smile. "What youth is all about."

"They would have ended your youth very abruptly if I hadn't been there," Harrison noted.

Niki swallowed. He was starting to sound like Addison. "Alright, I answered your question. Now it's your turn." He was silent while he applied the bandage. Finally he sat down across the small kitchen table from her.

"Alright." He folded his hands and all false amusement melted from his face. "You, Niki Valtaine, are a serial killer."

Niki was stunned. What the hell was he talking about? Her mouth was suddenly dry as she recalled the woman on the news. The woman the Deceivers had tricked her into killing. Did he know? How could he? Why wasn't she in handcuffs? "Uh... what?" was all she managed.

"You're a serial killer," Harrison repeated. "And I've been following you for a while now. I know you killed the Brandon woman and I've personally seen you incinerate dozens of others." His tone was so candid that he might have been telling her that he had personally seen her using the wrong coffee brand.

"You're crazy," she insisted, still sitting as he shrugged and went on. "You're really fucking nuts, you know that?"

"You're too young to be the original Cremator, but I think you heard about the case in the news or on some cheesy cop show and decided it fit your style." The FBI agent crossed his arms. "You took her name and you took her MO, starting the killing spree all over again," he wagged a finger at her with a sly grin, "but you were sloppy. You didn't burn that last victim, we found her and we're going to link you to her... and I'm going to take you down."

Niki's head was swimming. They couldn't... could they... Link her to that woman's death? "Crazy," she muttered.

"That's what my superiors said," Harrison agreed, nodding. "And, granted, I still haven't figured out how you incinerate your victims, but I'm telling you now that there's nothing you can do and there's nowhere you can run where I won't follow." He leaned in close, his experience as an interrogator telling him he had her where he wanted her. "I'll be behind your shadow. You blink and I'm there. You were sloppy enough to leave a body once; you'll trip up again. And I'll be there."

Niki slowly stood, her eyes cold and her hands trembling. Just what she needed: Another enemy. And this one couldn't be killed without raising questions. "Get out," she said hoarsely, her finger pointing towards the door. "You don't have a warrant. Get the hell out."

Still with the self-satisfied smirk, Harrison rose and strode towards the door. "I'll just be downstairs if you need me," he said with a smile.

The door slammed behind him, leaving Niki in her torn and bloodstained shirt blinking at the unrelenting obstacles the universe in its fucking infinite wisdom was throwing at her.

She slowly closed her eyes and sank back down into the chair. Shit.

--

Enterprise - Act 2

Hanna glanced down without realizing it, her cheeks flushing. He was looking at her like that again. Instantly she looked up so as not to miss his gorgeous eyes. His gaze was still locked intently on her. Matt was the only one who listened to her.

"Keep going," he encouraged, brushing a strand of his thick blond hair from his eye. "What did they look like?"

Hanna shifted her shoulders inside her denim jacket which suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. She knew she wasn't supposed to tell, but he was looking at her with such rapt attention she didn't want to disappoint him.

"Well," she explained modestly, "they weren't much taller than normal guys, but it was dark, so it was hard to tell. They kinda strutted about like they weren't even afraid of getting caught – not like bad guys from on TV or anything who are all hunched over and shifty."

"What were their faces like?" Matt pressed, imperceptibly leaning in a bit closer over the cafeteria table. Most of Hanna's 'friends' had abandoned her since the tale had started circulating that she cut herself for attention, and Matt had been pegged early on as a troubled child, so the two were alone this particular lunch hour.

"Their faces?" Hanna closed her eyes, thinking back to the night which seemed more and more like a nightmare. The more she discussed it –really, only with Matt– the less terrifying it seemed and the more the entire thing excited her. "They were sort of bumpy... I don't know, kinda angry looking, but like they were stuck that way– and their eyes were like cats eyes... or wolves eyes."

Matt's smile faded from his eyes to nothing more than a token twist of the lips. His own memory was fuzzy but still very present. The school was right; he was a troubled child. "And they had fangs."

"Of course," Hanna said, not catching his vague unease. "That's how I knew they were vampires." She leaned in closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "People say they don't exist – but they do. Kirsty better watch out or one of them will eat her and her whole family."

Now the smile had left Matt altogether. He blinked once. "That's not a very nice thing to say," he said distantly, looking at some invisible point on her shirt. If she noticed she didn't let on. "Then your dad came?"

Hanna nodded enthusiastically, getting to the good part. "He totally kicked their butts. He did this whole lightning thing from his fingers and they were, like, poof! gone, just like that."

Now Matt had a hard time concealing the smirk which had left Hanna eating her lunches alone. "He shot lightning from his fingers?" he asked, trying hard to suppress the sarcasm. She really was cute, even if she was just making all this up.

"I know how it sounds," she defended sternly, "like some kind of fairy tale. But none of you were there. I was and I know what I saw." She looked into his still smiling eyes, searching for some trace of respect. Then the bell rang.

Matt stood first, clearing away the remains of his lunch. "Well, I have to get to class." Hanna was still sitting, staring at where he had been. He sensed her pending disappointment and nudged her elbow. "See you in English?"

After a moment, she perked up. "Sure." And then he was gone.

Morosely, she dumped her lunch debris into the trash can and made her way to the girls' washroom. Resolved to spend a good five minutes feeling crappy about her decision to tell anyone what had happened, she didn't notice the dark form standing behind the door until it closed. Then the hand closed around her mouth and the last thing she heard before she passed out was a deep and amused laugh.

--

Logan brought the coffee to his lips and winced. It was too hot. Damn his bad luck. He stared out the window of the small coffee shop and glanced up at the wall clock. Back at the office in twenty minutes. Give or take. He blew on the coffee to cool it. Sip. Damn.

The scalding liquid he had managed to pull into his mouth came out in a spray as Niki strolled past the window, looking directly at him. He quickly wiped his mouth and stood from his small table as she turned in the door and approached his table with a perfectly stoic expression. Without a word, however, she sat down at the table beside his, her back to the window.

"Sit down," she said with a harsh whisper. "And don't look at me." She pretended to rummage around in her jacket pockets for a minute but continued talking. "I'm being followed. Just play along. Pretend you don't know me."

Logan stood and stared at her with a perplexed expression. After a moment of watching her ignore him, he shrugged and sat. It was broad daylight. How could a demon or vampire be following her? He decided to ask her.

"Never mind," she hissed, finding the napkin dispenser suddenly in need of her attention. "I need you to think back to when you made the bracelets. The silver ones. You remember?"

Logan shrugged. "Yeah, I remember," he said into the rim of his coffee cup. Sip. Damn. He winced. "What about them?"

"Is there any way you could tell one that you made from one that someone else made?"

"What's this all—" he began, but a crumpled napkin landed in his lap bearing the weight of something metal.

"Just do it. I'll be in contact," without another word she stood and marched towards the door, her eyes shifting furiously around the busy street, looking for someone she was sure was there.

Logan's puzzlement reached its peak. "How did you know where I eat—" he turned around but she was already gone. Lunch. He sighed, finishing his thought.

Sip. Damn.

--

Niki practically leapt out of the taxi and marched into the lobby of her apartment building. She tapped the elevator call button rapidly, glancing over her shoulder as the doors opened. She turned around with a start.

"Hello," Harrison smiled, standing in the elevator with his hands on his hips. "Looking for me?"

"Get the hell out of my elevator," she said through clenched teeth. Her eyes slowly widened as he drew a blue, folded piece of paper. He dangled the paper before her with a grin. Her jaw dropped slightly, images of him searching her apartment entering her mind. Closets full of weapons...

"You are eligible," he read from the brochure as he unfolded it, "for a full day spa treatment with the purchase of any–" Her fist connected with his face, sending him sprawling back into the elevator wall.

She grabbed his lapels and shoved him from the elevator just before the doors closed. With a hand covering her mouth, she rode the lift up to the ninth floor, trying to calm her racing heart. He could have... She shook her head. Calm down. Get your head together, she told herself. She finally relaxed when she got to her door and found it still locked.

Niki took a deep breath. Of course he hadn't broken in. He wanted an airtight case against her. No tricks, no deceptions—

Her eyes met the whiteboard hanging on her fridge door. For a moment her heart must surely have stopped.

Do not be deceived. Meet me at Time Square - 7pm

Niki walked slowly through the kitchen through the living room to the window by her bedroom door. On the street, nine storeys below, was a black car. Inside was Harrison. A shiver went up the Slayer's spine. All the thoughts and jumbled mess of the joke that was her life were crushed suddenly under an unbearable weight. She missed her parents.

--

Logan fingered the silver bracelet, wrapped still in its crumpled napkin, stuffed deep into his khaki jacket pocket. With a familiar tone, the imitation wood elevator doors opened, letting him back to his office floor just in time. More or less.

Like something from a Discovery Channel special, heads popped up from cubicles to see who had arrived. Upon seeing Logan, most dropped back down again. All except that of Eric Quinlan, the slightly balding prosecutor who was hand-holding Logan through the process of getting his promotion in the firm. Though Eric was an excellent prosecutor and junior partner of Morgan, Lewis & Bockius, his job had somehow become a dead end and though he wouldn't admit it, he knew his head was on the chopping block if the merger took place.

"Hey Kilpatrick," Eric waved his pencil in Logan's direction. "You got a message while you were out."

"Who called?" he asked, walking by to his own desk.

"Not a call," Eric corrected, "an actual message." He dropped the envelope on Logan's desk. The prosecutor remained, waiting to see what was so important it came in a black envelope, but Logan gave him a look which could wilt flowers. With conciliatory smile, Eric returned to his own business.

Logan tapped the envelope on-end on his desk, then tore the leading edge open to find out what was inside. With a jerk he emptied the contents onto the various papers on his desk. There was neither amusement nor trust on his face as he reached out for the simple folded piece of paper. With an easy flip he opened it.

We have your daughter. Wait for further instructions.

He read the words over again. We have your daughter. Your daughter. We have your daughter. The words began to blur as the letter trembled in Logan's trembling hand. With a jerk he pulled his hand back from the paper and wrung his hand. His fingertips had burned through the page leaving small black-edged holes. The slight wisp of smoke rising from the page curled around his face as he stood. His face was the color of the smoke and his hands were still trembling.

--

Enterprise - Act 3

Niki stood perfectly still at the corner of Broadway and 7th Avenue. The surreal hour of twilight was settling in and the city that never sleeps was beginning to light up. There was a car parked somewhere nearby whose occupant was watching her.

Niki pulled the comforting leather of her jacket tighter around her, burying her hands in its pockets.

As one, a small crowd of tourists began to cross Broadway, headed for the Slayer. Her eyes caught one particular figure, his fedora pulled down over his face, the collar of his plum jacket flipped up around his neck.

The people pushed past her, some pushing more politely than others. Without a word, Niki felt the tug of something being dropped into her pocket. Without a moment's hesitation, she shoved her way out of the crowd and hailed a taxi.

The ride home was silent as she fingered the thing which had been passed to her. When she got to her apartment, she knew he wouldn't be waiting for her in the elevator. She rode to the ninth floor in silence. It was something bad. She could tell. Whistler would have stopped to talk if it had been good. He was that sort of fair weather friend who always got scarce or useless when times were tough. The doors opened and she scoffed internally: that's why she was the hero and he was the... demon. Must be in his job description.

She slid the key into the lock like it was the first time. Opening the door, she moved through the living room in the dim light towards the small shelf next to the couch. A tape player sat gathering dust. She jabbed the eject key and pulled out the last tape to be played. The Toe Tag City demo tape. The tape from her pocket she slid into the player's lid and snapped it closed, hitting the play key. There was a staticky silence for a few seconds before the familiar voice began with a sigh.

"Hello Niki. Sorry I'm not around right now, but I can't get involved with humans' legal affairs. Against the rules and all that.

"Anyway, I've got a few things to tell you, so listen up. First of all, I've found out something which might be useful. There's a seer — yeah, just a regular old seer, doing palm readings at Hudson Mall. She'd know a thing or two about the Deceivers, or at least if your love line is strong.

"As for... The other thing. You can't control everything, and you can't sit back and do nothing. That's your problem. You have to see what's behind you, but you can't look back." Whistler's voice took on an amused tone.

"Listen to me: I sound like a fortune cookie... Your lucky numbers are 122, 37, 10016. True, you have fewer lucky numbers than most, but consider how your luck has been." There was a sudden silence. Niki was just reaching for the tape player when the voice made her hand jerk.

"Remember when times were good? Go back to where times were good. Yes, now you can turn this off." Her finger came down and the tape stopped with a click.

Niki sat on the floor of her apartment in the dark. On an impulse, she replaced Whistler's tape with the one she had last listened to — how many years ago? As the music started, she hugged her knees and laid her head on a couch cushion. But she didn't sleep that night.

--

The very might of the Earth resonated up through his footsteps, a deep and unquestionably angry voice. Under his shoes was the crunch of his frosty footprints. The ground froze where he stepped. The top of his head was practically steaming, his body divided between cold hate and hot rage. Down in his gut, however, where the hot met the cold, a gnawing cancerous terror resided. They had his daughter. They had Hanna. The terror snapped and bit like a chained dog. Circling it was a sickening guilt. They had taken her because of him.

Logan marched down the sidewalk to the small boarded up shop which the message had advised him was the rendezvous point. He had every intention of barbecuing whoever was sent to meet him until they told him where Hanna was. Then they would die. And not quickly.

His newly healed fingertips were beginning to glow at the center of his tightly balled fists and his irises had turned from a hazel brown to a burnt black. Crunch, crunch, crunch, the ice under his feet left snowy footprints back to the phone booth where the second message had been left for him.

Without a thought, he vanished into thin air in the late evening light, reappearing only a few paces ahead; his impatience and terror getting the better of him. Crunch, crunch. The door was locked when he tried it. No matter. With a twist of light he was inside, looking about in the darkness for something to make scream.

"Daddy," the weak whimper made his veins fill with ice.

Like a shadow he moved towards the sound, his hand reaching out and meeting the warmth of Hanna's cheek. She flinched. In the darkness, his fingertips were glowing visibly. An eerie colorless glow. Then he heard her gasp.

Logan ducked just as the sword swept through the air where his head had been. Turning, he delivered a punch but found only thin air. The sword sang as it swept past him again.

"Illuminatus," Logan commanded, the room suddenly brightening.

Before him stood the very essence of the Goth. Seven feet tall, thin and dressed all in black, the demon was the terrifying avatar of the vampire Goths' coven. His face was as white as an eggshell, as were his eyes, except for the tiny black dots of pupils. Pencil thin black eyebrows made no movement whatsoever, the face like a statue. From its head swept hair like two black bats wings, arrayed around several black stubby horns running back along its skull. Oddly enough, there was not a trace of silver chain or piercing anywhere. Except for the sword.

The short sword wavered through the air like a cobra, gripped by skeletal hands. Without a word, the demon attacked again. Logan ducked to the side, drawing the action away from Hanna who was tied to a chair against the wall farthest from the door.

"Why are you doing this," Logan demanded, crossing foot over foot, avoiding the demon's strikes. "You must be particularly stupid." The demon did not answer, simply lunging with the sword.

Logan took a deep breath and pulling his hand apart, letting fly a volley of energy. The light show glanced off the metal of the sword and the demon didn't even notice, taking another swing. The tip of the blade stuck in the wall and Logan opened up again, still only striking the sword.

"Ha," the demon laughed expressionlessly. "You are the powerful wizard? You know one trick." The thick black wings of hair on his head seemed almost to flutter with his otherwise unexpressed amusement. "I will clean my teeth with your bones. Then the vampires will dine on the little one." He turned and for the first time made an expression, grinning at Hanna who sat terrified, tied in the chair.

"Honey," Logan said gently, "I want you to close your eyes." Logan backed a good distance away from the demon, then slowly went down on one knee. Hanna shook her head vigorously, her eyes wide open.

Logan slowly bowed low, feeling the floor with his hands, as if inspecting it for flaws. The demon laughed once and moved forward, his sword lifted, ready to separate this man from his head. With calm and concentration, Logan's fingers spread out on the floor and thin white tendrils snaked out before him. With a gleam in his eyes, he looked up to the demon, exhaling a fog of condensed breath.

There was a sound like cracking glass and the demon suddenly appeared to lose his balance, wavering uncertainly with his arms on either side. Logan lifted his shivering hand from the icy floor and watched the demon's reaction as he looked down and noticed that as he had taken a step, he had left his foot behind, firmly frozen to the floor.

His icy stump swung through the air for a moment, then he toppled over, his other ankle cracking sickeningly as his leg went horizontal while his still connected foot also remained planted on the floor, thickly covered in frost.

The demon howled as its bones splintered under its own weight. He still possessed the presence of mind to swing the sword at the approaching wizard, however, and missed by only inches. Making a mad stab, he caught Logan's shirt and tore it, his arm fully extended.

With quick hands, Logan slapped his palms together on either side of the flat blade, holding it harmlessly. Soon the blade was covered in ice and the demon let out a hiss as his hand turned from a skeletal white to a pale blue and ceased to respond to his commands.

"Honey," Logan advised, never taking his eyes off the wounded creature, "I really mean it now. Close your eyes or you're grounded."

Hanna finally forced herself to tear her eyes away from the horrific sight. There was a crunching sound and then a moment later a shout and the distinct sound of the sword striking the tiles and something heavy hitting the floor. The shout ended abruptly.

She was still shaking, her eyes tightly closed when cold hands touched her wrists and began loosening her bonds. "C- can I look now?"

--

Niki was shaken from her drowsiness by the twist of light through the corner of her eyes. She blinked rapidly in the darkness and could only tell that it was a human form standing by her coffee table, looking in the blackness for her. She cleared her throat and the figure turned. What time was it? She glanced over at the tape player. It had run out some time ago.

"Niki," it was Logan's voice. He took a step closer and reached out to flick on the light. The Slayer squinted in the sudden brilliance. Finally she saw him. His shirt was torn and he was carrying something rather hideous. "This is for you," he said quietly, too tired for anger or disappointment. Too warn to forgive.

The severed demon head landed on the carpet near her knees and she looked down at it uncomprehendingly. "For me?"

"This shitball demon took my daughter," he said with the same quiet tone which made her worry. "He was going to kill us both." There was a pause as he tried to read her reaction. "You knew, didn't you?"

Niki blinked. Had she known?

"Why didn't you tell me they were coming after me!" he shouted, falling to his knees to grab her by the shoulders. "Why the hell didn't you tell me? Hanna could have been killed!" When she merely looked at him with blank eyes, the back of his hand swept across her cheek on an impulse and she flinched.

She swallowed and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd have to get involved. I thought I could handle it on my own."

"Well obviously you can't." He shook his head. "I'm calling Addison," he turned and walked into her kitchen. "I can't believe you didn't... What the hell is this?"

Niki frowned and stood up, stepping over the head and into the kitchen. Logan was staring at the whiteboard.

You will die tonight.

Niki's eyes widened. Before Logan could turn around she had grabbed what he had given her and was out the door.

--

The Slayer's powerful legs carried her quickly over the pavement. Even in the dark she had found what she had been looking for.

"I'm back where times were good, Whistler," she said aloud, standing before the stairwell which led down to the now abandoned Nail Biter. With a tilt of her head she noticed the address. 122, 37th Avenue East. Lucky numbers. Whistler had told her to go here. There was obviously something here.

She slowly descended the stairs, placing her feet silently where so often before she had clamored with eager anticipation. The last time she had been here was... The night of the Civil War. When all of this bracelet business had started.

She reached towards the door handle which she knew to be there and gave it a push. Curiously, it was unlocked. The streetlights around the block and across the street flooded the stairwell with light which fanned inward into the deserted bar.

Quietly, Niki stepped inside. What else had Whistler said? Then she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside on the street. Instantly she crept behind the bar she knew was there, listening for the sounds of feet on the stairs. Sure enough, her perpetual stalker was here too.

You have to see what's behind you, but you can't look back, Whistler had said. She glanced up from her hiding place to the mirror hanging behind the bar, angled such that she could see the form entering the bar. Within seconds he had vanished into the deeper shadows at the other end of the room. Then something else caught Niki's eye. A crack of light coming from the door to the old training room.

Clutching tightly to what Logan had dropped in her lap back at the apartment, she stood and stealthily made her way towards the training room door, considering opening it with caution, but eventually settling on kicking it in.

With a crash the door was busted inwards and the Slayer strutted into the midst of a gang of vampire Goths. One glance told her all she needed to know. Spread out on a table were several silver ingots, arranged as if in an assembly line. Two vampires on either side of the table were chanting from a small book and there were glittering lights coming from the rim of a large bowl into which one of the ingots had been placed. Nearby was a pile of silver bracelets and a large box of black silk.

All heads turned to the Slayer, including one with a black snake tattooed up the neck and over the eye. He was the first to recognize her. As one, eighteen hands slid into eighteen breast pockets and drew out eighteen handguns. No mistakes this time.

--

Enterprise - Act 4

"Hold on," Niki said with a laugh, "don't shoot."

The leader of the Goths, the snake opening its mouth wider as he raised his eyebrow, held his revolver perfectly level with the Slayer's throat, targeting her from across the room. "No, I really think we will." He drew the hammer back.

"I'm not here to kill you," Niki said disarmingly, "or even to stop your business." There was a pause. The vamp slowly tilted his head.

"Not reasons why we shouldn't kill you."

"My wizard friend knows how to tell your bracelets from his," she said simply, holding her hands clasped behind her back.

"Your wizard friend has been killed," the Goth argued, his gun lowering slightly.

Niki frowned. "By whom," she lifted the head from behind her back, "this dude?" The terrible expression of the massive severed head, gripped firmly in the Slayer's hand, made several vamps gasp. "Yeah..." she shrugged, "you pissed off the wrong daddy."

"Again, not a reason not to shoot you... and him." The guns lifted again and several more hammers were drawn back.

Niki flashed a smile. "Then here's one: I'm still honoring the original bracelets. And while I'm tickled pink that you've brought destitution to the scum you've done business with, the owners of the originals are still high standing vampires. They would be very annoyed if you killed the only Slayer in the line of Slayers who honored their immunity."

Several of the guns were lowered tentatively. Niki could see the Goth's jaw working back and forth, gritting his teeth. She could see that he very much wanted to riddle her with bullets.

"The next Slayer, I can promise you, will be happy to slaughter everything inhuman in this city. I'm your greatest ally right now. I'm also making you an offer."

The Goth sneered, his gun dropping even more. "An offer? What could you offer us?"

"Fuck this!" one of the vamps shouted from Niki's left. He raised his gun and took aim at the Slayer's head but a shot rang out and he dropped with a scream, his hand clutching the side of his head.

"Nobody fires," the lead vamp snarled, his gun smoking, "until I say so!" His fiery gaze swept the rest of his crew. Then it settled back on the Slayer. "I'm waiting."

Niki dropped the demon head on the floor where it rolled a few feet. "Well, since word has leaked out that your products are forgeries, I expect your sales will plummet. Your influences will dry up and your friends will desert you." She pointed to the rows of silver bars and the pile of bracelets. "That must have cost you an arm and a leg, and now it's worthless." She took a step forward into the room, the guns lifting to follow her. "I'm offering to buy it all off of you."

The lead Goth's gun was now aimed almost at the floor. He wished she would jump at him, pull a stake, give him an excuse. He rubbed his finger across the trigger, feeling the pressure it would take. Of course she had a point. It didn't matter now if they killed the wizard. If word was out their merchandise was identifiable, it was over. They had to go into hiding very quickly to avoid disgruntled customers. Caveat emptor.

"What do you want in return," he said grudgingly. He was a businessman after all.

Niki took another step into the room but this time no gun barrels followed her. "There's a man in this building who followed me," she said simply. She lifted her hand and touched a spot between her eyes while looking at the scar on the Goth's face. "I think you owe him one."

With an odd look, the Goth's gaze shifted from the Slayer to the darkened doorway behind her. He squinted, then emptied six rounds into the darkness. With a thud, a body hit the floor.

--

Logan sat in the driver's seat of his car. Hanna sat in the passenger seat, staring down at her hands in her lap. She swallowed and didn't meet his eyes when she spoke, afraid to see disappointment.

But Logan didn't feel disappointment. Only regret. And fear. Every last trace of blame was squarely on his shoulders. No thirteen-year-old should have to face demons and vampires. Niki had even told him that Slayers weren't called until they were at least fifteen. No, none of this was Hanna's fault. But she may have complicated things slightly. "How many people did you tell," he said quietly.

Hanna blinked. "Kirsty, Allison... Janice, Susan, their boyfriends and Matt."

Logan swallowed. He knew some of these 'friends.' Chances are they didn't believe any of what she had told them of him. Then frowned. "Wait, which one's Matt?"

At last she looked up at him. "Just a friend." She slowly dropped her gaze again. "He doesn't believe me either."

Logan finally sighed. "Well, it's for the best." He leaned over and took her in an embrace. "I'm so sorry you were involved. I had thought I left all of that behind... but it looks like that's impossible. But you can see how dangerous it is. We can't get anyone else involved. Understand?"

She nodded into his shoulder. "Not even mom?"

Logan pulled away to look her in the eye with a focused intensity. "Especially mom." He hugged her again. "You and she are the only things I care about in this world." The guilt clutched at his heart like a vise. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Love you, dad," she closed her eyes and squeezed him tight. He squeezed back.

--

Niki stood in the voluminous elevator, a large bunch of cheap and fragrant flowers wrapped in clear plastic. With a chime, the door opened and she and several doctors in white coats stepped out. She approached the reception desk and smiled.

"Hi, I'm here to see Mr. Harrison..."

"Oh, he's just around the corner," a nurse replied, picking up a chart and rounding the counter to lead her. "I'll take you there." Niki nodded her gratitude. "Are you family?"

"No, just a friend," Niki smiled charmingly. They rounded the corner and continued on towards the correct room. "What can you tell me about his injuries?"

The nurse opened the chart and shook her head. "We get a few cops in here with gunshot wounds, but this... He took six bullets, three in the stomach, one in the thigh, one in the arm and one in the face. We managed to remove them all but one of them shattered his lower spine: he'll never walk again." She opened the door and swept aside the curtain to reveal the man on the respirator. "We had to induce a coma in order to remove the one in his brain. So far, he hasn't woken up yet."

Niki stared down at the prone figure, dressed in peaceful blue medical gown, IV in his arm and plastic tube down his throat. Click, hiss, went the respirator. "Will he ever wake up?" she asked, her voice laden more with curiosity than concern. If the nurse noticed, she didn't let on.

"There's no way to tell. The brain damage was severe." She took the flowers from Niki's hand. "Let me find something to put these in," with as much awkwardness as was required to enter the room with the large array of flowers, the nurse exited into the hallway.

Niki slowly leaned down over Harrison's sleeping face. His head was shaved and bandaged, covering what must have been the scars of a very difficult surgery. She peered down into his closed eyelids, trying to find any indication of his will to wake up. Click, hiss.

The barest hint of a smile gleamed in the Slayer's eyes.


	4. Betterment

Betterment - Act 1

Niki took a big bite of the hamburger, chewing thoughtfully, then swallowing. She repeated this several times then set the remainder down to take a swig of her beer. Secretly, she hoped by reducing her alcohol consumption to beer she might head off her Slayer visions and have a good dream for once.

In the two weeks since she had put that FBI officer in the coma, Niki had managed to avoid going back on her deal with the Goths and had actually dodged the cops' black market bust on the stolen silver she had just sold. She allowed herself a little smile. It had been a good couple of weeks. She took another bite of the pub's questionably quasi-famous burger.

"I won't tell the police if you don't," a grim voice said from just behind and to the left of her.

Niki slowly lowered the dripping burger to the paper basket in had come in. Her mouth was empty but she swallowed anyway. The owner of the voice slowly rounded the table and sat down across from the Slayer.

Niki blinked. The woman looked to be in her mid fifties, hazel hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a severe bun. She wore an unsettlingly old-fashioned dress which was dark red with small white flowers and lace. The woman said nothing as Niki hesitantly reached for her beer and took another swig.

"Can I help you?" The Slayer said uneasily, her face betraying her confusion. "Tell the police what?"

The woman appraised Niki for a moment, then a warm smile spread across her face. It looked very comfortable there.

"Who you really are, Niki Valtaine." She steepled her fingers on the table top and would have looked happier if she were lashing the back of a truant's hand with a wooden ruler.

The Slayer's eyes shifted. And who am I? she was about to say, but stopped herself. This woman must be the seer Whistler had spoken about. "Well good. Then I won't have to kill you, will I?"

The woman's face cracked into a broad grin. "Whistler told me you were amusing."

Niki's face was blank. "I'm a laugh riot." She tipped the beer bottle back and let the last of it pour down her throat. With a satisfied sigh she set it back down and wiped her mouth on a crumpled napkin. "Is there something I can do for you," Niki asked, her patience thin, "besides not turn myself in?"

The woman raised a thin grey eyebrow. "You were told to seek me, weren't you?"

Niki shrugged. "To discuss the Deceivers. But I haven't ever seen them and I'm beginning to think they're just a figment of my imagination."

The woman tilted her head. "But that would mean you killed Megan Brandon by yourself. Are you willing to accept that?"

Niki's expression grew sullen and her tone sour. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"But you are not everyone, Niki Valtaine, Vampire Slayer." The woman's voice was strong and clear, such that Niki frowned and held a finger to her lips.

"You wanna say that a bit louder?" Niki hissed, "I don't think the guy in the coma heard you."

The severe woman nodded gravely. "Yes. The man in the coma. Not a vampire, not a demon. Not even an evil man. A detective you had shot to protect yourself from your mistakes."

Niki shrugged innocently. "What, I'm not allowed more than one mistake?"

"Do you think it was a mistake?" the woman said evenly. "Look at yourself." Niki did. The woman continued. "Look at who you are! You've carried on an affair with a married man. You've raised your own army of demons and vampires! And won! You make allies of demons, deals with vampires and enemies of humans. You are a fugitive in the daylight world. What are you?"

Niki winced. "Complicated?"

"How man vampires have you slain in the past month?" the woman demanded.

Niki's gaze dropped. Few enough. Considering the number she had been in contact with: The dealers at the airport. The junkie on the subway. The numerous Goths. "What's your point?"

The woman's face took on an air of complete astonishment at the Slayer's reply. What's my point? "You're on the wrong side, Niki," the woman hissed. "You're more an asset to evil than you are to good!"

Niki scoffed. "That's bullshit. I could shower this city in dust if I wanted to. I'm just taking a break."

The woman shook her head with disgust and stood, pointedly leaning in to focus her glare. "Don't presume to deceive a seer with the lies you use on yourself." And she stalked off leaving the Slayer staring angrily at her unfinished hamburger.

--

The grin wouldn't leave him alone. It tugged at the corner of his mouth and he was sure it made him look like a fool. He couldn't help it. Full partnership.

The letter lay innocently on the coffee table in the Kilpatrick's living room. Full partnership.

"I'm so proud of you honey," she said in his mind. "You've worked so hard for this, now your job is secure for the merger." He blinked. That's what she would say. Full partnership.

"Are you seeing someone else?" she stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes cold. He looked up from where he sat in the living room to her glowering form in the front hall. His smile melted. She took his moment of shocked silence for a denial. "Where did you get this?" She let the silver IXI bracelet dangle from her hand. She draped his coat over the back of one of the easy chairs facing him.

Logan's brow creased. "It's, uh... Medic Alert bracelet. The firm's nurse gave it to me. Apparently I'm allergic to something called haloperidol." He kicked himself immediately for having lied about that. She was studying for her nursing degree. He braced himself.

With a frown she examined the silver tag and its inscription. "It doesn't look like any medic alert bracelet I've ever seen," she said skeptically. "What's I.X.I.?" He shrugged. Eventually, however, she dropped it onto the coffee table. "You're supposed to wear it," she said at last, distractedly picking up the open letter to scrutinize it as well.

"I got promoted," Logan's smile reappeared as quickly as it had vanished. "Full partnership."

After a moment, his smile spread to her. "That's great honey," she seemed genuinely happy. All her former suspicion and distrust had evaporated. "Let's celebrate."

Logan raised an eyebrow. He knew what that meant. His grin widened. He stood and took her hand following her up the stairs to the hallway. At the end was their bedroom.

He looked to the left as they passed Hanna's bedroom. "Hold on," he said absently, letting go of his wife's hand to gently knock on his daughter's door. "Let me just say goodnight to Hanna."

When he got no answer from inside her room he opened the door and tiptoed into the darkness. In the wedge of light from the hallway, he could see her pretending to be asleep under her covers. She had likely been writing in her diary by flashlight when he had knocked. Now she lay with her eyes closed, the very picture of an angel.

"Hey," he said gently, sitting down on the edge of her bed. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat at the edge of her bed. She wasn't the child she had been then. Wasn't his baby. He swallowed. With everything that had happened these past few years... he feared he had missed her grow up. "I know you're awake," he said bluntly, "am I magic or not?"

Her eyes finally opened, a wry smile on her face. "Yeah, I guess..." Then she perked up. "Sing me to sleep," she said with finality.

Logan did a mock double take. "Sing you to sleep?" he said with a quizzical frown. "I haven't sung you to sleep in... years. Besides," he added with a twinkle, "I have a date with this totally hot chick in the other room—"

"Dad, that's gross," she scrunched her face and gagged. "C'mon. Mom'll be around forever. I'll be moving out of the house in, like..." she thought about it, "five years."

Logan heard her sarcastic tone, but shared none of her amusement. "Are you trying to break your poor father's heart?" he said weakly. It was closer to the truth than he could even admit to himself. "Who said you could grow up so fast, huh?" She smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes. "Alright," he sighed at last, shuffling his bum on the edge of her bed to get more comfortable. "What d'you want to hear?"

"Boxer," she said contentedly, closing her eyes and snuggling under the covers.

Logan took a deep breath and cleared his throat, swallowing and trying to hear the key in his head.

"_I am just a poor boy, _

_though my story's seldom told._

_I have squandered my resistance_

_For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises, all lies and jest_

_Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest, _

_hmmm..._"

Hanna felt asleep with no expression on her face.

--

Addison slowly poured the stuff into the coffee mug. It wasn't tea and it wasn't a teacup. It was depressing, that's what it was. Lukewarm, liquid depression.

The Watcher winced as he brought the stuff to his lips. Nope. Not tea. He'd heard some rather depressing things about Niki since he'd gotten back from London. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. All he wanted was to go back to his estate and write a book. Write his memoirs. Oh, no one would read them of course. His life contained more sensitive details than an MI 5 agent. The only people who would even believe any of it were the stodgy old farts on the Council. And they were too boring to read something exciting like "Richard J. Addison; The Chronology of a Warrior." Yes, he was too old for this.

The door opened and Niki strolled in, tossing her black leather jacket on the kitchen table, tossing her blond hair and tossing a glace to the old man who was again living in her apartment. "Evening."

"Sit down," Addison said quietly, taking another sip of the stuff which continued to fail to be tea.

"Aren't you a little old for this?" Niki said, marching into her room to change. Addison stood and followed her as far as the door which she closed in his face. "I thought we established I can handle myself. I don't need you anymore."

The old Watcher blinked wearily. "Logan only calls me when things are really out of control. I'm not here because you can't handle yourself. It is abundantly clear you are handling things. I hear you've become quite the negotiator. I'm here to make sure peace doesn't break out in New York City."

"Funny," she replied dryly. "I'm just taking a little time off. Entrepreneurs are allowed to do that."

"Funny," he answered curtly. "Remember the war didn't end on Atlantic Avenue: you cannot just stop fighting."

The door opened and Niki emerged wearing a clean white T-shirt and slightly more faded blue jeans. "You know there's a whole school of thought which says violence doesn't solve anything."

Addison nodded. "Yes, you burnt that school down as I recall. Making peace with vampires is all well and good, except you've given them the privilege of feeding whenever they want. Need I remind you... they're inherently evil?" He turned and followed her as she made her way towards the bathroom. Again the door was closed in his face. "You have a very simple job. If it lacks a pulse and yet still walks around: put a stake in it."

"It sounds very simple when you put it that way," Niki agreed from behind the closed door. "Now let's jump to the part where you con one of the walking pulse-less to be my Watcher. Then he tries to kill me. That's my favorite part." The toilet flushed and there was the sound of running water. The door then opened and Niki strolled out. "And don't forget that the magical little bracelet was your idea."

Addison took a deep breath. "I know that—"

"You want to know what I know?" Niki interrupted, on a roll. "I know that I have given up absolutely everything for you." Her tone implied she could say a whole lot more, but she simply held his gaze, daring him to criticize her.

After a long moment, the old man conceded. "You're right," he sat down on the couch in the living room, setting his mug on the only coaster in sight. "It's just... how many have you slain—"

"Is that what this is about?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "My quota?" She laughed hollowly. "Fine. I'll go kill some vampires. I'll go right now. Bracelet or not."

"Niki–"

"No," she snatched her jacket off the table, "I thought I could have one fucking night off, but if you want numbers, I'll give you your damn numbers. I'll give you twenty— Hell, I'll give you twenty five. Fitting number." She slammed the door behind her.

Addison scowled. Twenty five?

--

Betterment - Act 2

Logan got up the next morning with the renewed glow of Full Partnership. The quality that words had when you repeated them enough seemed to have abandoned these two: Full... Partnership... Same as the first time, he mused. A little giddy, he pulled back the covers and quickly replaced them so as not to allow the cool air to disturb his wife's nakedness. He himself shivered as the cool morning caressed his naked form. Some of the giddiness, he admitted, wasn't job related. Something most employers know is that promotion improved performance.

He showered and dressed and wandered down stairs to have some coffee. He stepped out of the kitchen to hear the subdued sounds of the television. Sipping his coffee he watched Hanna sitting cross-legged before the TV. She hadn't watched Saturday morning cartoons in years. He shook his head. Without disturbing her, he finished his coffee and donned his khaki blazer, giving the house one last glance before starting for work as Logan Kilpatrick, Criminal Defense Lawyer.

The drive was uneventful, giving him time to think about the things he would buy with the extra money he would be bringing in. He rode the elevator in silence, his briefcase changing hands several times. Finally the door opened and he found himself on an unfamiliar floor. He strode down the unfamiliar corridor to a small, unfamiliar office set between two others whose occupants he had never met. Looking up at the door, however, told him he was right where he belonged. His name was stenciled onto the glass.

He opened the door and found a new desk and high backed chair, his workspace still clear of mess, though that would soon change, he assumed. He was still considering this when the thin, unimposing file landed on his desk. He looked up, expecting to see Eric Quinlan's grinning face, but it was instead one of the prosecutors from across the hall

"Got dumped on my desk by mistake," she said tonelessly, turning to go with something like disdain. Logan smiled. He was now back at the bottom of the ladder: the newbie. He took a deep breath, feeling ten years younger.

Flipping the file open, his eyes were immediately drawn to the photograph attached to the top left with a paperclip. An elderly woman, African-American with sky grey hair and a kind face stared at him out of the folder.

She was charged with assault. Logan blinked. He looked up again at the picture. Then the name, Mira Washington. Date of birth: 12/08/16. Logan blinked again. So a seventy one year old woman assaulted someone with a deadly weapon? Interesting. She had apparently stashed a small fortune away which was the means by which she had made bail and had now been assigned to him. Logan blinked a third time. East 143rd Street, Bronx. If this woman had enough money to pay for the services of Morgan, Lewis & Bockius, why didn't find a better place to live? The neighborhood in the South Bronx was one of the poorest quarters in the all of New York – in the whole country, Logan guessed. Assault had a completely different meaning in this woman's neighborhood than it did in Queens. Sad but true.

Logan sighed. He would need to go and interview her. It was perfectly legitimate to inform her that she would need to come to his office, but it was common practice to visit the home of elderly clients, a courtesy he had learned from the senior partners. He closed the folder and stood. There were some things he would like to go over with Eric before he did the preliminary interview. Riding the elevator down to his old floor, he couldn't have imagined what he saw when he got there.

Half a dozen large men were carrying the cubicle desks to one end of the room while a small pile of cardboard boxes was the subject of much sullen attention at the other end. He saw some people he knew carrying their possessions back towards the elevator, various degrees of resentment and anger on their faces.

Logan stood in shocked silence for a moment inside the elevator before the doors began to close again. He quickly jumped out, looking up to the wall above the main receptionists desk. The desk was built into the floor, so it was not being moved, but it was bare now and the sign which had been hanging above it, reading Morgan, Lewis & Bockius was sitting on the floor against the wall.

Another, larger and more impressive sign was carefully being put in place by two men. Wolfram & Hart Attorneys at Law it read.

"Eric," Logan spotted Quinlan who was digging his box from the pile. The prosecutor found a small plant, which had tipped over and spilled some of its dirt onto the floor, and placed it carefully on top of his box.

"Morning, Logan," Eric replied with a good approximation of chipper. "Everything running smoothly upstairs?"

"Eric, what the hell is going on?" Logan demanded, looking around at the corporate destruction all around.

"Streamlining," Quinlan replied, carrying his box to the elevator. "I expect I'll get home and find they've stolen my stapler or something like that. Bastards."

"You've all been fired?" Logan asked incredulously. "Have you spoken to the senior partners about this? They wouldn't allow this!"

"They were the first to go," Eric informed him. "Apparently they were offered severance packages they couldn't refuse."

"So what are you supposed to do now?" Logan seemed angrier that Eric was losing his job than Eric himself.

"Legal aid," Quinlan said with a hint of sourness. "For some reason there's a shortness of court appointed attorneys." Eric tapped the down arrow on the elevator keypad.

"Cause the pay's shit," Logan replied as the prosecutor waited calmly for the doors to open. "This is ridiculous!" But Eric didn't seem to react. He waited calmly and then stepped into the elevator, turning to Logan who now felt guilty and angry not holding his own desk's contents in his hand. He knew he wasn't going on this elevator: he wasn't going down.

"Win one for me," Quinlan said with fabricated happiness, then gave a wink and the doors closed.

Logan was left standing with the slow dismantling of his old floor going on around him. He realized then just how precarious his position was. He was a newbie, but not a welcome one, or a particularly gracious one. If they could let Eric Quinlan go, his own office could be a storage closet overnight if he wasn't careful.

--

The door burst inward and a very resentful Slayer marched in, raising her crossbow and delivering a fatal bolt to the heart. The vampire collapsed into a pile of his own ashes. Discarding the crossbow, Niki drew a stake and ducked the swing of the second vamp. He vamped out and grabbed her in a bear hug, pulling her to the floor in the darkness.

With a yell of pent up anger, Niki drove the stake so hard into the creature's chest that the tip of the wood splintered on the cement floor. The cloud of ash rose up to greet her like an exhaled breath.

She was breathing hard, not from exertion but from anger. She normally took pleasure in the hunt, the kill. Not today. Today was supposed to be her day off. Nothing methodical. Nothing strategic. She knew where they were, she could smell it, and she killed each and every one of them she found. She had been working her way North up Park Avenue all night, she was tired, but the anger forced her on. She knew Addison would be back at her apartment. She knew all he wanted was to know how many she had killed. How many tonight? How many last night?

Eleven, she scowled, stalking back up the stairs to the front of the shop, then out onto the street again. Niki grimaced as the midmorning sunshine fell across her face. Fourteen to go, she thought angrily, 'cause I'm a fucking jolly good fellow.

--

Betterment - Act 3

Logan held his hands firmly on the steering wheel of his car. Looking with a frown at the street signs he passed, he watched as the pleasant looking grass median was replaced by highway dividers and the not so pleasant rust-red railroad tracks of the IRT line which came to the surface North of 96th Street on Park Avenue.

Soon Park Avenue itself came to the river and Logan found himself crossing out of Manhattan into the South Bronx. It wasn't long before he had found 143rd street East and pulled his car to a halt by the curb.

The sun was setting and Logan opened his door so the car light would come on. He read the address again and locked his car door, taking his briefcase with him. He had called ahead to inform her he was coming this evening, but hadn't gotten an answer. He had decided to come anyway. He couldn't win this case if he wasn't willing to meet his client. And if he didn't win this case, Logan had a feeling he would soon be carrying his possessions in a cardboard box.

He got to the steps of the apartment building when, in the dim light, he saw someone blocking the door.

The boy was maybe sixteen, slouching yet watchful. One glance at Logan's suit and briefcase told him he wasn't here to buy anything. Logan tried to squeeze past him but the boy, surprisingly tall for his age, put his shoulder in the lawyer's path.

"You the building inspector?" he asked, his stance firm enough to block Logan effectively. "Took your goddamn time, didn't you?" Without a moment's hesitation the boy took his arm and pulled him into the building, straight to the elevator doors.

Logan wanted to protest, but he was caught off-guard by the elevator doors, standing ajar and leading to the empty elevator shaft. Somewhere above a light was flickering desperately, trying to light the shaft but failing. Logan frowned.

"You see this?" the boy asked angrily. "My little brother nearly died playing in the hall outside out apartment." Logan opened his mouth again to protest, but the boy grabbed his arm again and hauled him a little ways down the hall to the stairwell. Logan looked up and could see nothing, just a gaping void rising into the distance.

"The circuit blew," the boy said with annoyance, "and nobody's bothered to fix it. All we need is a new fuse — but the landlord doesn't care enough to buy one: Use the elevator, he said." The boy was clearly very angry and Logan could understand it, he realized as he looked up the stairs cloaked in darkness: he would have to climb those stairs to the top. Going up might be challenging, but coming down could be deadly.

Logan seriously considered teleporting, but a side-glance at the boy told him he wasn't likely to be alone any time soon.

"Aren't you going to write any of this down?" he demanded, relinquishing Logan's arm and deepening his frown.

Logan set his briefcase down at the base of the stairs and pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket. "Uh, actually, I'm not the building inspector." He flipped a page in his notebook. "I'm here to see a Mrs. Mira Washington..."

The boy's anger shifted to suspicion. "You with the tax people?"

Logan paused uncertainly. "No... I'm her lawyer. I'm here to conduct an interview so I can give her adequate representation in court."

"Why's she going to court?" the boy demanded, crossing his arms.

Logan's eyes shifted uncomfortably. Lawyer-Client privilege. "I actually can't tell you that. If she chooses to discuss the matter–"

"What's this about," an accented voice said from behind the stairwell. Out of the darkness into the dim light offered by the lobby, a sleek looking Puerto Rican wandered cooly, discarding his glowing cigarette and stepping on it in silence.

Logan's body tensed. He had been around enough vampires to know them when they were near. Human witness or not, if this vamp attacked, Logan was going to defend himself.

"This man says he's a lawyer," the boy explained, as if the vamp hadn't been listening to the entire conversation.

"We don't need no lawyers here," the man stepped further into the light, closer than Logan was comfortable with, and tapped another cigarette from a pack. He held it between his lips and looked up and down Logan's khaki suit. "The law," he said emphatically, looking all around them into the darkness, "doesn't see this place. Go home."

Logan watched him for a moment as he lit his cigarette and let his breath cover the lawyer's face. Logan ground his teeth. "Well, unfortunately, it can't be helped. Mrs. Washington has been charged with a crime and is in need of expert defense." He picked up his briefcase and started up the stairs, regardless of the darkness.

With a sudden snarl, the Puerto Rican vamped out and snatched Logan by the back of his blazer, pulling him from the stairwell and throwing him to the floor. "You stay away from Momma Love, you hear me?"

Logan fought his instinct to vaporize the vamp and composed himself, slowly getting to his feet and brushing himself off as if he had merely tripped. The vamp, he realized, had his game face on and yet the boy didn't seem to care. Logan pondered momentarily whether he too was a vampire, but decided against it.

After a moment of standoff, the vamp pulled his cigarette from his mouth and bared his teeth, drawing closer to Logan in the dim light, emphasizing his vampiric features with a growl. Logan stood his ground.

"You're not afraid?" the vamp asked mockingly, his yellow eyes glaring at the human from beneath a contorted brow.

Logan shrugged. "I've seen scarier things in my daughter's diary."

The vamp hissed, his breath smelling like death. His face returned to human form and he drove his fist into Logan's gut, then drove his knee into the lawyer, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him from the stairwell into the lobby.

Logan held onto his briefcase and his balance, keeping on his feet and managing not to show signs of pain. He had resolved himself not to expose his magic here. Don't mix business and... other business. The two worlds must remain as separate as he could keep them, even if the vampires didn't feel the same way. If a normal human lawyer couldn't get past this guard, his firm couldn't expect him to either.

With one last metaphorically burning glance at the vamp and the boy standing beside him, Logan strode out of the apartment and got back into his car. This was going to be more challenging than he had thought. And he had thought he had been generous.

--

Tawnie's hand scribbled her signature over the line, then found the space for the date, scribbled that in, then initialed in half a dozen places. She turned the page and found a whole new array of spaces and empty boxes. Soon her signature filled them all. She harbored no resentment for the long bureaucratic process: it was the engine which kept the whole machine moving. Even if people didn't know it, bureaucracy was the real intention. The real goal. It was the truth behind all the silly notions of happiness and freedom. A society could accomplish anything it wanted, absolutely anything, so long as there was enough paperwork to sign.

The Requerimiento, the notification to all indigenous peoples that they had been conquered by Spain, was read in Spanish to each native village before the Conquistadors took Mesoamerica in the fifteenth century.

A complete and notarized correspondence was kept between Auschwitz Administrator Karl Bischoff and the furnace maker Topf, detailing the need to increase the number of crematoria to five.

Tawnie's hand scribbled her signature rapidly and with care. History showed that evil was only criminal if there was improper paperwork filed. With the last page signed, the hand came down to collect the pages. The white-suited figure stacked the pages and pumped a staple into the top left corner.

Tawnie admired the simple demon. He wasn't all concerned with fear and death and destruction. He had the patience which was lacking in so many of the Ancient Ones. He knew that a job well done was worth ten failed apocalypses. And his methods paid off, having successfully crashed the market only a few weeks ago.

"Thanks Tory," Tawnie smiled, folding the contract into its dossier and sliding it back into the appropriate drawer. The figure in the white suit and boater hat nodded gratefully and touched the end of his cane to his hat's brim. He turned and left the new reception desk of Wolfram and Hart's new New York office.

There wasn't really a call for much business here. Since the devastating Civil War almost two years ago, demon and vampire clientele were hard to come by in the city that never sleeps. But there was one thing that New York had that Los Angeles didn't.

Tawnie glanced to the clock on the wall behind her desk and then to the elevator doors. As one set closed on the corporate corruption demon, finished now with his business of dissolving Morgan, Lewis and Bockius, the other set opened. Out strolled a sober looking Logan Kilpatrick.

Logan looked around at the lounge chairs and potted plants which were being placed around the room. There was artwork hanging on the far wall and the receptionist was already looking quite at home.

He looked her up and down, unable to hide his disapproval of the entire situation. Tawnie, her name tag said. She looked to be in her mid fifties, her hazel hair sporting a few tasteful greys, hanging about her shoulders. She wore an odd dark red blouse with small white flowers and a white lace collar. She was busily shifting papers from one pile to another, adding her signature and pressing a date stamp to each one.

"Mr. Kilpatrick," she said without looking up, "is there something I can do for you?"

"I wasn't able to actually get into the building to see my client," he said with irritation. It was embarrassing, but hopefully it would draw some much needed attention to such a problem. If he hadn't already been aware of vampires, that encounter could have gone very differently.

"You're not going to let one little vampire scare you off, are you?" she said, still not looking up. She jammed her stamp down onto the paper and slid it over into the next pile. Logan stood with his jaw hanging open. He finally blinked once his eyes began to sting.

"Uh... what?" he managed.

Tawnie finally looked up. She frowned then looked back down at a master sheet she had off to one side. "Mrs. Washington – she lives in a part of the Bronx with quite a few vampires. You may have to use your powers to get in." Her tone was nonchalant and somewhat disinterested, as if she had an infinitely tall stack of things more worth her time than Logan Kilpatrick. Again Logan was stunned.

"You... you know—" he let the statement hang for a moment, "...about that?" he finished with confusion.

Tawnie sighed and stood, setting her pen down with deliberation. "Mr. Kilpatrick, let me introduce myself. I am Tawnie Fischer. From now on I'm your liaison to the Senior Partners. You have any questions and concerns which you might ordinarily bring to them, you will now bring them to me. Understood?"

Logan's eyes shifted uncertainly. "The Senior Partners... of Wolfram and Hart, I expect you mean?"

Tawnie nodded with irritation. "Of course." She opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet behind her. From it she drew a large plastic container. "Your old senior partners were offered severance packages they couldn't refuse."

Logan slowly looked down to the contents of the plastic container. It wasn't clear for a moment what he was looking at and his expression conveyed this. Tawnie was kind enough to rephrase. "They couldn't refuse to have no more than these severed."

Heartbeat. Logan recoiled from the container as the forms of three human ears became clear. He bared his teeth in disgust and looked to Tawnie with revulsion. Holy fuck! his mind screamed. His stomach turned.

Tawnie smiled, sitting back down. "Welcome to Wolfram and Hart."

--

Betterment - Act 4

Logan's eyes were still wide open, despite the lateness of the hour, as he drove back through the Bronx to where his client lived.

Behind his eyes circled his mind, spinning around and around in a panicked circle, around his collapsing sense of reality. They know, they know, they know. Unable to control it, he burst out laughing. He had to swerve the car to avoid hopping the curb, nearly doubled over as he was from laughing: Full Partnership. The words had briefly crossed his mind, the cosmic joke of the moment making his sides ache. He had been so close. On the very threshold of a normal life when the firm of which he had been granted full partnership had been... severed. He continued to laugh, his life laughing with him.

The life he left behind had swallowed him up completely. This could work, a small part of his mind told him. You could work with this. His laughter continued as he pulled the car to the side of the road, got out and lifted his briefcase from the passenger seat.

The light in the lobby was still lit and the boy was still standing in the doorway. He held up a hand as he recognized the car and the man with the briefcase, but Logan brushed past him without a second glance.

He strode with a broad smile through the lobby to the stairwell where the Puerto Rican vampire was waiting, smoking another cigarette.

"I thought I told you, you're not–" but his words were cut off as Logan held out a hand and an invisible fist took hold of his throat. Logan's smile was still there as the vamp's eyes grew wide, the fist tightening.

Lifted completely off the floor, the vamp couldn't stop Logan from approaching the stairwell. Taking one look up at the dark void into which he would have to go, Logan closed his eyes and disappeared in a twist of light. The vamp fell to the floor, massaging his throat. The boy looked from him to the place where the lawyer had been a moment ago, distant amusement on his face.

Logan reappeared outside room 605, straightening his collar before politely knocking on the door. He knew it was well after midnight, but he now had a good idea why his call earlier today hadn't been answered. Mrs. Washington was the sort of person who was most active during the night.

The door opened a crack and a pair of eyes peered out under the chain which held the door from opening any further. "Yes?" a voice croaked.

"Mrs. Washington?" Logan said happily, "I'm Logan Kilpatrick, representing Wolfram and Hart. I'm here to represent you."

--

Niki drove the shank of the crossbow into the vamp's throat, knocking her off balance. Niki's fist connected firmly with the creature's sternum and sent her over backwards into the street. Niki knelt down and picked the vamp up by the collar to bring her face closer.

"You know what yesterday was?" she shouted into the inhuman face. With a grimace, she smashed the butt of the crossbow into the vamp's face. The vamp's head snapped back and then came forward again, hissing. Niki struck her again and again. "Do you know?" she demanded furiously.

The vamp finally scowled. "No!" the vampire shouted, struggling free of Niki's grip. She grabbed the Slayer's shoulders and smashed her face into Niki's own.

Niki staggered to her feet and raised the crossbow, letting a bolt fly into the vamp's shoulder. The vamp screamed and ripped the wood from her flesh. The bolt missed her heart and the vamp charged.

Niki swung her arm and took the vamp hard in the throat, knocking her again to the ground, this time jamming a stake into her heart as she tried to rise. The dust blew away in the cool autumn wind. "Of course you don't," she said bitterly. "Nobody does." She brushed off her jeans and loaded another bolt into her crossbow. Twenty One.

--

Logan sat with his hands folded staring at the vampire before him. She was much older than seventy one. It hadn't taken much money back in the thirties to alter her records. Back then she had been Mira Love and the name had translated to her new life. She was known as Mama Love around the South Bronx and as far as Harlem and Manhattan.

She looked relatively harmless, though Logan knew as elderly as she looked, she could inflict severe damage if she wished. So he sat with his hands folded on an antique chair staring at the elderly one who also sat staring at him.

"So, Mrs. Washington," Logan began cordially, "you're aware of the charges of assault leveled against you?"

Mama Love nodded. She reached over and with a steady hand took a teacup to drink. Logan didn't want to know what was in it.

"Do you know for a class A misdemeanor you could do up to one year in prison?"

Mama Love's eyes lifted to meet Logan. "It's all been one big misunderstanding," she said slowly, sipping her tea, or what might have been tea.

"How so?" Logan asked, pulling the small notepad from his suit pocket.

The elderly woman, for that is how Logan had begun to see her, set the teacup down. "I was only tryin' to help him. But he wouldn't let me and got scared. I don't hold it against him."

Logan frowned. "He's charged you with second degree assault. I expect the only way you could have inflicted serious physical injury on a thirty seven year old man was if you were trying to... feed off of him." The words felt odd to say. He was defending her, he repeated over and over in his mind. How had it come to this?

Mama Love was slow to respond, rolling the words around in her head before speaking them. "You ain't never been to this end of town, have you?"

Logan shrugged. "Not true. I was here earlier this evening."

Mama Love seemed to ignore this. "Most folks here... they ain't got many friends with the power to help them." She looked slowly from her teacup to her lawyer. "The rest of you rich folk are content to pretend we don't exist, living your busy lives while we rot."

Logan's expression was becoming grim. "What does this have to do with the assault?" He hadn't looked too closely at the file, but he hoped she didn't have a vendetta against the entire middle class. He'd already seen the destruction of one vampire war. He'd hate to see the city turned inside out because of economic imbalance.

"Marta," the vampire said kindly, looking at the door. "She lives next door. Her husband died of AIDS just last month. She's got it too. Same as her two kids. They call it the skinny disease." She was quiet for a moment, then slowly turned her head to the window. "She used to have three little ones. Jeremiah, the youngest, died last year from tuberculosis."

Logan frowned. "They have treatments for that. There's no excuse—"

"Their family doctor was over booked for months. They didn't know what he had until it was much too late." Her voice was slow and tired. She continued to stare out the window.

Logan glanced down briefly, then pressed his point. "I still don't see what this has to do with-"

"He used to play with Timothy, who lives across the street. They didn't play together for eight months before Jeremy got TB." The statement hung like fishing bait in crystal water.

"Why not?" Logan asked patiently.

"Timothy was shot behind the ear in a drug deal gone wrong. He died instantly." she said gently.

Logan frowned. "Timothy was a drug dealer?"

Mama Love slowly shook her head. "No. He was just sitting by the window and caught a stray bullet."

Logan took a deep breath and sighed. It was tragic, he admitted to himself, but he still didn't see—

"But young Josh," a distant smile crossed Mama Love's face, "he will never know sickness." She turned from the window to gaze contemplatively into Logan Kilpatrick's face. "He is completely cured of the skinny disease given to him by the dirty needles he used to use. He'll never have to worry about gunshots or about getting enough to eat."

Logan slowly nodded in understanding, lowering his pad. "He's a vampire."

Mama Love didn't acknowledge this, but continued as if Logan wasn't there, turning back to the window and the starless night. "Hernando, he lives on the first floor. He will never spread sickness to his lovely wife, and she will never catch it. They are free from the pain of having lost their two children."

Logan took another deep breath and accepted the novelty of writing this down. He lifted his pad, his pen at the ready. "And you sired them?"

Mama Love looked at him curiously. "I saved them. No one else bothers to try. There is so much paperwork between the rich and the poor. It is easier to bring us all together where we can be ignored. Disease, despair and crime are the result of this neglect. I am the result."

"And this man who claims you assaulted him?" Logan was busily scribbling down her testimony. Each time he came to something any 'normal' court would scoff at, he paused. 'V' for vampire. 'S' for sired. This was going to be one interesting case.

"I told you it was a misunderstanding." Mama Love suddenly looked a little agitated, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. She stared out the window as if she wanted to be out there, prowling the streets.

"He came to you for help but didn't know what it entailed?" Logan glanced up from his pad to watch her response. There was none. "Do you ever consider what you're doing as wrong?" She slowly turned to face him again. Her gaze made his question feel unwelcome. "I mean, you're effectively killing these people. You're robbing them of their day lives. Sure they're free of disease and virtually immune to gunshots... but they've also lost their souls. Are you still able to convince yourself you're saving them?"

Mama Love slowly looked down before taking a deep, clear breath. "You don't live here," was her response. "I used to be able to guarantee them safety from the Slayer," she said quietly. She gently touched the hint of something silver hanging from her wrist. "But not anymore. Nothing is sure anymore."

Logan acknowledged this and lifted his pen to make a point. Suddenly Mama Love stood, lifting herself easily from the chair and letting her teacup fall to the floor. Logan frowned as the vampire stared at the door for several seconds. Finally Mama Love vamped out —a truly frightening thing, Logan discovered— as the door burst inward.

Niki Valtaine strode in, looking very pissed off and aiming her crossbow confidently. The old woman raised her left hand, her sleeve sliding back to reveal something silver, but the bolt flew nonetheless. "Twenty-five," Niki spat.

Logan opened his mouth to protest but, in an instant, his client collapsed into a small pile of dust on the already filthy carpet. His mouth continued to hang open.

Niki turned to him, stake in hand, and it took her several seconds to actually recognize him in the deceiving yellow light thrown by the room's floor lamp. She slowly lowered her stake, confusion registering on her face. There was a long moment when mixed feelings passed between the former lovers.

Finally Logan closed his notepad and put it back in his pocket. He pulled the cap off the end of his pen and replaced it over the head. With care and determination, he stood and took hold of his briefcase, working his jaw and trying to avoid feeling resentment for Niki having done her job. He realized the hypocrisy of his position. That didn't make the small pile of ashes go away though, he thought bitterly.

With his hand gripping tightly the handle of his briefcase, he stared at Niki from across the room. She stared back, confusion and the slightest hint of betrayal in her eyes. Logan blinked once and was gone in a twist of light.

--

Niki caught a cab home, her rampage complete. She found Addison asleep in the spare room and she collapsed on her bed fully clothed.

Sometime around noon the next day she awoke with one thing in mind. She strode past the old Watcher sitting at the kitchen table, brushing her knotted hair with her fingers. "Twenty fucking five," she said calmly, walking out the door. His gaze followed her with a frown.

The taxi dropped her outside Hudson Mall. Whistler had said that seer read palms here. What did that old headmistress have to say about which side she was on now? Niki thought with cold composure. Twenty five vampires in one day. A personal best in peace-times.

Niki walked between the shops looking for a palm-reader's kiosk, looking for a woman in a dark red dress with little white flowers and lace. She almost missed it.

"Read your palm, miss? Tell your future?"

Niki turned and her brow creased. A young woman sat at the palm reader's table. It was a cheap folding table with a cheap tablecloth covered in stereotypical occult symbols. A model hand sat on the table with the word palmistry written in calligraphy on its wrist.

Niki stared fixedly at the woman behind the table. She was no older than Niki herself, bright red hair and a Guns N' Roses shirt proudly stretched across her broad shoulders. She had a bright smile and bright blue eyes.

"You just filling in?" Niki asked uncertainly, sitting at the table across from the reader.

The girl made an odd face. "Filling in? No. This is serious stuff. Ten bucks for your life story, twenty five for your future." She was chewing gum and reached out with a heavily ornamented hand to take Niki's palm.

Niki allowed her hand to be examined without taking her eyes off the young woman. She wasn't sure what this was or what was going on, but this wasn't the woman who had come to see her in the—

Jessica, the palm reader, smiled. "You know, if it were anyone else, I'd have to make up something vague and comforting." She flashed perfect white teeth. "You know, like 'you've had a troubled childhood' or 'you will find happiness in travel.'" She leaned in closer and her smile broadened. "But for a vampire slayer I can be specific without causing suspicion."

Niki instinctively pulled her hand back and frowned. This was no joke.

Jessica shrugged. "I don't really need your palm. People are just more comfortable with hocus-pocus where they think they know what's going on. We both know it doesn't work that way."

Niki held her hands in her lap, the situation beginning to congeal in her mind. "You can tell me about the Deceivers?"

Jessica shrugged again. "Sure Knicks— you don't mind if I call you Knicks, do you?" She continued, regardless. "The Deceivers aren't a specific set of people or demons... that's why you'll never find anything telling you how to kill them. They're anyone who's possessed by the Deception. Now the Deception apparently is something demonic – conjured by a demon or sorcerer and it acts on a targeted person how ever the person who summoned it wants it to: subtly and usually seamlessly. That's why it's so insidious: you may not even know it's there."

Jessica indicated a young man in a denim jacket walking with his arm around a young woman. She was bright eyed but seemed to be profoundly worried and hiding it. "He got her pregnant. She just told him this morning. He told her he'd stay with her, but he's taking her shopping to get her everything his simple mind thinks she'll need, then he's going to ditch her."

Niki looked from the couple and the bags they already carried to Jessica who was observing them with a distant sadness. "You can tell all that?"

Jessica nodded vigorously. "And more. But I can't let them know I know — it would look suspicious. But I do what I can."

"Any advice for me?" Niki said distantly, realizing the deception which was following her had managed to make her do things... to what end, she didn't know. And she found she was scared to know. "Can I end the Deception somehow?"

"Not unless you kill the one who conjured it," Jessica answered matter-of-factly. "And there's really no way of determining that. Until then, the Deceivers will follow you around, trying to get you to do what they want using lies and misdirection."

"What am I supposed to do?" Niki stood, her face worried.

Jessica stood as well. "If you can't trust yourself, find someone you can trust. Try not to be alone — the Deception can only possess one person at a time, so if someone can watch you, you can at least be sure you won't do anything too crazy."

The Slayer nodded, feeling somewhat reassured. Finally she cracked a grateful smile. "Thanks," she said at last, offering her hand to the seer.

Jessica smiled broadly, taking Niki's hand and shaking it. "No problem. Oh, and Knicks," she said with a glint in her eye, "happy birthday."


	5. Liaisons

Liaisons - Act 1

Hanna stared down at her lunch tray. String beans and fish sticks. Probably fish sticks. You could never really be sure until you tried them. She wasn't really looking at the pseudo-food, but past it to that nether world of thoughts and possibilities.

Matt let a little grin slip past. "Earth to Hanna, come in Hanna," she immediately looked up and blushed. "It's not going to become edible just by looking at it," he warned.

"If only," she agreed. "I was just thinking... about stuff."

"Toothy and nocturnal stuff?" He bravely swallowed a mouthful of what was possibly fish.

Hanna closed her eyes. Why did he have to believe her? It wasn't a game, she realized. This wasn't something she could use to her advantage – that thing that had kidnapped her could have just as easily have taken Kirsty or Matt or anyone else... and they didn't have a dad like she did. No, it was too dangerous to be believed.

"Matt," she said, opening her eyes again... And he was still there. Thick mop of blond hair, hanging over his brow, partially concealing his gorgeous, bright blue eyes. He was looking at her that way again. "Matt," she pressed before his gaze could swallow her up, "I hope you didn't believe any of that stuff– uh– that stuff about vampires... you know they don't really exist." She looked down to break away from his piercing eyes. "It's all just made up."

Matt cocked his head. "You don't have to pretend," he said quietly. He got quiet whenever he was talking especially to her, as if a real conversation between them was a secretive thing. "I know the truth. I've known for a long time."

But his words weren't penetrating. The bell rang and she stood, not meeting his eyes. "It's all made up," she insisted, clearing away her unfinished lunch. "I... I made it all up to be popular."

"And the cuts on your arm?" Matt was still sitting. "You did that yourself?"

Hanna frowned. "No!" She turned on him and immediately he had her in his gaze again. "I– I mean, it wasn't vampires... it was... um..."

"Hey," he said quietly, standing and coming around the table. He put his hand on her elbow and she looked down again. She felt like she was being scolded. After all, it was a lie. And only to Matt did the lie sound less likely than the truth. When she finally looked up at him, the cafeteria was nearly empty. He had something hard behind his eyes.

A large part of his mind was urging him to leave. If she couldn't deal with the truth, then she wasn't who he thought she was. But his hand couldn't seem to relinquish her elbow.

"There are scarier things than the truth," he said at last. "Believe me, I know."

She looked up, convinced she could withstand his eyes long enough to get her point across. "But what if—" she was caught off guard when he planted a soft kiss on the corner of her lips. Her mind raced. She wasn't quite sure what to do, but she didn't care at the moment. She hadn't actually thought of what her first kiss would entail, but with her eyes closed and a cute guy delivering it, it seemed perfect. Suddenly the truth was trivial.

--

Addison lifted the Smith & Wesson semiautomatic and took careful aim. Behind his safety glasses, his target appeared to be a sitting duck. Through the earmuffs he could still hear the gun discharge as he let her have it.

With a splintering of wooden crates, each bullet missed. He tracked her, firing at random intervals, shattering more crates. Finally, as the clip was nearing empty, he took aim at a cast iron engine block and fired some shots which ricocheted off towards his target. Each one missed.

With his last shot, the Watcher took out the chain of a hanging light fixture but with a risky back flip, his target avoided this too.

Addison smiled, removing the ear protection and replacing his safety glasses with his bifocals. "Well done," he grinned, walking forward to congratulate the crouching Slayer.

"What?" Niki shouted over the ringing in her own ears. Then she laughed. "Just kidding."

Addison surveyed the damage his bullets had done to the inside of the warehouse, then noticed the damage he had done to her. "Oh dear. It's looks like I got you."

Niki frowned. "What?" She looked down as he fed his finger through the bullet hole in her black leather jacket. "Oh, dammit! This thing's taking a beating." She shrugged off the scarred, torn and now bullet pierced jacket. "You didn't get me though," she argued, noting the lack of bloody wounds as evidenced by her pristine white T-shirt. "And you say you've had some experience with that thing?"

The old Watcher tilted his head. "More than any vampire Goth, I can assure you."

Niki nodded, satisfied. "Well, eventually I'd like to move up to automatic weapons, but first I think I need a break."

"You're not getting tired, are you?" he asked, a little suspiciously.

"No, no," Niki said easily, "I've just been up the last few nights, catching up on some slaying and I can't seem to sleep in the daytime anymore."

"I've got some sleeping pills, if you think they would help," Addison offered, following her to the crate where a water bottle, a towel and a small bucket full of clips was located.

"Nice," she picked up the water bottle from where it lay on its side, a wide hole in each side where one of the ricocheting bullets had struck it. She emptied the last of the water into her mouth out one of the holes and sat down on the crate, closing her eyes for a moment.

When she opened them again, the warehouse was illuminated in an eerie yellow glow. Addison was gone. With slowly widening eyes, Niki watched as a silhouetted figure emerged from the darkness and took on a form she still remembered, despite the time that had passed.

For several heartbeats, there was silence as the one observed the other. Finally, Joshua Valtaine spoke, his voice cold and emotionless. "He will betray us," he said simply. After a short moment, her father turned and began to walk into the gloom.

"Dad!" she called out, but her eyes shot open and she found herself lying on her back on the warehouse floor. Addison was staring down at her with a frown.

"Are you alright?" he asked, taking her elbow and helping her into a sitting position. "You seem to have fainted."

Niki stared at him, unsure for a moment what had happened. She had never had a vision in the middle of the day before. Maybe her all-nighters were screwing things up. Unlike a normal dream, her vision stayed with her a bit longer. He will betray us, dad had said. Who will betray us?

Her eyes met Addison's. No. Never. Of course it was not as though there were that many other "he's" in her life right now. She stood and shook off the eerie feeling which followed from the dreamworld.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think I sat down too fast or something." She blinked rapidly. "I think I'll take you up on those sleeping pills."

--

Logan stared down at his latest case file. This one wasn't even trying to disguise himself. Some sort of shaman was accused of sacrificing thirteen virgins and drinking their blood. The prosecution's case was a little sketchy without the actual bodies, but the defendant was tight lipped and his comments seemed to be limited to uttering curses and incantations.

He didn't see her enter until the file came down on his desk. "When you have a minute," Emily, the prosecutor from across the hall, said distantly. "Oh, and Tawnie wants to see you. She sounded pissed."

Logan sighed and stood, dropping his case file and leaving his office for the elevator. He didn't get that far; Tawnie was waiting for him in the elevator lobby.

"Are you narcoleptic?" she asked suddenly as they stood facing each other in front of the wide mirror facing the elevator doors.

"Uh... what?" Logan frowned.

"Do you find yourself falling into a deep sleep suddenly, at inopportune moments?" She sounded like she was going somewhere with this, but Logan wasn't sure where.

"No, not really," he replied uncertainly.

"Then could you explain to me how a vampire slayer managed to walk in and kill your client while you just stood there?" She raised her eyebrows. "Are you a conjurer or aren't you?"

"I... uh... froze up," he said with a frown. "The whole situation sort of... caught me off guard."

"Don't make a habit of it," she said fiercely, stepping into the elevator as its doors opened. "We kept you afloat when all the others were drowning. Don't make us regret it." The doors closed and Logan was left staring at his infinite reflection between the stainless steel doors and the mirror facing them.

What an unpleasant person.

--

Liaisons - Act 2

Hanna had a distant expression on her face as she poured milk over her cereal. She was looking through it. Luckily she noticed before she started pouring milk across the kitchen table.

Logan watched her with rising amusement. It had taken him about ten seconds to figure out why she had been so distracted these past few days. He had the tact to keep it to himself though.

"Dad," she said with a troubled crease on her brow. "Can I talk to you—"

"Nope," Logan said simply, sipping his coffee and returning his attention to the newspaper.

"What d'you mean nope?" she retorted.

"I mean no. Boys don't exist yet. Not until you're sixteen." He cleared his throat and put his empty mug in the sink. "And as much as I appreciate the vote of confidence – it's your mother you should really be talking to about this."

Hanna looked down sullenly. "I already talked to her," she said quietly.

"And?" Logan folded the paper and dropped it back on the table.

"I thought you'd say something different," she glared at him, "but I guess not."

Logan shrugged. "It's a parent thing."

"Well parents are dumb," Hanna argued, throwing her spoon down into her bowl. "It's not fair!"

Logan smiled. "That's how you know it's not fiction." He wandered past a bleary-eyed Rachel, heading towards his jacket. "Honey, tell your daughter she's too young to be dating."

Rachel looked from Logan to Hanna. "You went over my head?" she asked her daughter with exaggerated hurt. "Actually, what's scarier is that you went to Logan for relationship advice."

"I heard that," Logan called from the front hall.

"You guys are such dweebs, all the kids at school are dating!" She crossed her arms sullenly.

"Hear that honey," Rachel called over her shoulder, "we're dweebs."

"I'm crushed," Logan called back. "Hanna, if all the kids at school jumped off a cliff, would you?"

Hanna sneered. "Only if you told me I couldn't."

"Ouch," he laughed and he was gone out the door.

"Mom," Hanna pleaded, sitting down heavily in the chair by her untouched cereal. "He's really nice. He just wants to take me to the movies... his foster mom will even go with us. She'll be, like, a chaperone. What's wrong with that?"

"You're too young to be dating," Rachel insisted, as if repeating the most obvious fact in the world. "And I've never met this boy's— what's his name again?"

"Matt," Hanna answered defensively. "He's really nice. And he's not, like, a football player or a chess geek or a batcaver or anything– he's just normal." She offered her best puppy dog eyes and her mother finally shrugged.

"He sounds really nice," she agreed. "I think you should invite him here for supper."

Hanna was horrified. "Here!?" She shook her head vehemently. "No way!"

"Way," her mother replied with a smile. "If you think you're old enough to date him, then you're mature enough to introduce him to your parents."

Hanna brought her hand down her face with a groan. "Ugh, this is so not even happening."

Rachel smiled, patting her daughter on the shoulder. "Oh, I assure you it is."

--

Niki sat patiently in the small booth in the dark café. Across the room, in another dark corner, was a man. He wasn't really a man, at least, not a human man.

He was dressed in a fine black suit and black silk shirt, sporting a dark red tie. His hair was neatly combed and gelled into place. He held his menu firmly, examining the wine list. He wasn't really hungry, or thirsty for wine, Niki knew. He was watching the customers of the restaurant. Once the sun had set, he would choose a couple or a loner and leave after them – follow them to some deserted street or just force his way into their car... only then would he dine.

As the vampire examined the wine list, his eyebrow went up at the price. As his eyebrow went up, the tattoo of the snake which rose from his neck and seemed to attack his eye opened its mouth wider.

You've really gone into hiding, haven't you? Niki thought to herself. If it weren't for the tattoo she would not have recognized him as the Goth leader she had dealt with more than a month ago. He was finally venturing out into the world again. Idiot.

"Hi, my name's Jesse," a smiling face looked down at her.

"Thanks, I've already ordered," Niki replied, staring intently at her quarry.

The man identified as Jesse laughed. "I'm not a waiter," he said, holding onto his smile. He sat down on the bench across the table from her.

Niki slowly tore her gaze from the former Goth and frowned at the man sitting at her table. He was fairly nondescript. Thick sandy brown hair covering his forehead and a mullet covering the back of his collar. He had dark brown eyes, almost black and a nearly perfect white smile.

"Then why are you at my table?" Niki answered shortly.

Jesse's smile went on and on, like it had its own power source. "I wanted to tell you in person that I'd like to buy you a drink."

The Slayer squinted, as if this might make more sense from a different angle. No chance. "Are you for real?"

"The genuine article," Jesse grinned. He just kept smiling. Niki wanted to punch him in the teeth. That would probably get her kicked out of the café, she knew. "So what are you having?"

"Solitude," Niki said with annoyance.

"Well why don't we share one?" Jesse leaned forward and took the dessert menu from between the salt and pepper shaker. "Are you here for a late lunch or an early supper?"

"I'm meeting someone," Niki lied angrily. What kind of a jerk just sits down at someone else's table?

"You're right; we haven't really met yet have we? I'm Jesse, and you are?"

"Pissed off," Niki said deliberately, trying to look at the Goth without seeming suspicious.

"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. It's just an innocent drink." Jesse put on a pathetic pleading tone. "Come on, how many guys have offered to buy you a drink in the last month?"

Niki scowled, insulted. "How many girls have told you you're an ass in the last month?"

"You think there's some correlation?" he wondered out loud. He dropped his smile and leaned forward. "Come on, one drink and I promise I'll go away."

"What is your deal?" Niki demanded, "I don't want you to buy me a—"

"Your drink, miss," the waiter set the large lime daiquiri in front of Niki.

"See, I kinda already did," Jesse smiled sheepishly, looking over the large rum cocktail. He turned to the waiter who was still standing there. "Thanks, Henry," he smiled. "Take the rest of the night off."

The waiter perked up. "Hey, thanks Mr. Trent," he left smiling.

Niki blinked. "You said—"

"I said I wasn't a waiter," Jesse had reacquired his grin. "Didn't say I didn't own the place."

Niki sighed, taking a resentful sip of her free daiquiri. "Do you always hit on your customers?"

"Who said I was hitting on you?" Jesse asked, a little offended. "I just wanted to buy you a drink."

Niki looked away from the Goth again and flashed him a skeptical glance. "You expect me to believe that?"

Jesse shrugged, standing from the table. "I said I'd go away, and I will. Have a nice evening..." For the first time he followed her gaze over to the far table. "... and while I'm up, I think I'll have a chat with your friend over there... see why you find him so fascinating."

Niki's eyes widened. "No!" she noticed his intrigued look. "I... mean... you could sit– er, stay if you wanted to." She accidentally threw a glance back towards the Goth and cursed herself in her mind. "I mean... it is your restaurant after all."

A small smile spread across Jesse's face. It was sly, perhaps a little devious. "No, I... think I have just found someone more interesting..."

Niki stood, grabbing his shoulder. "Hey, come on, now..." she racked her brain for the right thing to say. It seemed like ages since she had actually gone after a guy's attentions. "You wouldn't say no when a girl asks for company, would you?"

Jesse considered this, trying to suppress his sly smile. "I suppose it depends on the girl... I mean if she were a total spastic—"

"Oh, come on!" Niki punched him gently in the arm when she realized by his tone he was playing her. He sat back down with a playful snicker. She sat down opposite him, her annoyance replaced by relief. The annoyance, however, soon returned as she looked over and saw the vamp with the snake tattoo was leaving.

Jesse looked over and noticed too, the target of her attention now fully clear. "Will you be leaving then?" he asked with a sigh.

Yes, the Slayer in her answered abruptly. But she was more than a Slayer. With the slow realization that she would have another chance at the Goth another day, she slouched her shoulders as if in defeat and took another sip of her daiquiri. "No, I guess I could stay," she conceded.

"Well don't act so excited," Jesse scoffed. "Mister Snakeface couldn't have been that interesting, after all, look at the skank he's leaving with."

Niki looked up and saw the vamp following a biker chick out of the café's front door. Her internal alarms were going off. This game had to end now.

"Tell you what," Niki stood, sliding some money under the base of the cocktail glass, "you let me walk out of here, no questions asked and without calling me a cab, and I promise you can buy me drinks to your heart's content next week. Deal?" Her eyes were following the back of the vamp's suit as he crossed the café's front window.

Jesse could tell she was serious and his smile disappeared. "Yeah, okay," he agreed, turning with a frown to try and see what she obviously found so disturbing. "Are you okay?"

Niki glanced at him with a hasty shrug. "I'm absolutely perfect – that's why you were hitting on me, isn't it?" And with that she brushed past him and left the café, turning down the street in the direction the vamp and his prey had gone.

Jesse stood at the table with a confused and amused look on his face. He shrugged and let out a single laugh. "Yeah, just perfect."

--

Liaisons - Act 3

Niki followed the vampire affectionately called Snakeface out of the café. He was a few hundred feet ahead of her but in the twilight she could see he was following a slightly disoriented biker chick. The woman was walking with one shoulder against the brick wall and as soon as it ended she found herself on the ground at the entrance to an alleyway. Seconds later, hands were helping her deeper.

Niki broke into a jog to catch up. When she got to the alley entrance, she slowed her footsteps and crept to the edge of the brick. With one confident stride, she stepped out into the open, expecting to see the vamp harassing the girl. The alley was empty.

With a frown she strode into the darkening alley, glancing occasionally behind the dumpsters she passed. She jumped when a door burst open from one of the buildings and a large man exited with two bags of garbage, dumped them in the nearest dumpster then reentered, giving her a suspicious yet dismissive glance.

Niki continued deeper into the alley, her footsteps nearly silent. Six, she counted in her mind, five... four... three... She turned on her heel and faced Snakeface and the biker chick, both sneering at her from behind vampire eyes. The vamp in the black suit looked very annoyed.

"We had a deal," he hissed, jerking his arm up to show her the silver bracelet. His companion did likewise.

Niki winced and nodded in acknowledgment. "Yeah... about that." The Slayer shoved her hands into her pockets. "I did some soul searching, and I realized..." she shrugged, "I lied." She pulled a stake from each pocket and leapt into the air.

As she came at him from above, Snakeface drew a pistol from his suit coat and brought his hands up to take aim. Niki had anticipated this and had leapt for the alley wall, launching herself off of it at shoulder height and spinning in mid air to avoid the bullet. In a flash her foot connected with the gun and it clattered to the ground. She landed in a crouch and finished the twist by sweeping the biker chick's feet from under her.

Niki leapt to her feet again, her fists up, a stake in each. Snakeface snarled, spreading his arms to embrace her in a deadly bear hug. Without warning, Niki punched him between the eyes. His head snapped back and then came forward again with a confused look.

With a determined glare on her face, Niki caught him with a left hook, then struck him again with her right. When he came back again the snake above his eye was bleeding. With a roar he launched himself at her and she ducked the swing, driving her elbow into the back of his knee.

She then turned her attention to the biker chick who was getting back to her feet. Niki quickly grabbed the woman's shoulder and thrust the stake in her left hand between the biker's shoulder blades. She gasped as she fell to the alley floor as dust.

Rough hands took Niki by the arms and spun her around, a violent smack sending the stake in the Slayer's left hand out into the alley. Niki made a stab with the right one, but the vamp pulled back, then struck her across the face.

Niki felt blood at the corner of her lip and bared her teeth. With a shout she drove her fist under the vamp's jaw as hard as she could. He seemed as surprised as she when he was thrown up and backwards into the air.

Niki dropped to her knees and slid her right hand and the stake in it forward, pointed up. Snakeface landed horizontally with a surprised grunt, the stake protruding up between his ribs, poking out his expensive suit. He managed to exhale before he disintegrated.

Niki slowly stood, brushing the dust from her knees and walking towards the discarded gun. Picking it up, she examined it carefully. She then looked to her own weapon of choice, spinning it expertly between her fingers as if she were a cowboy and blowing the dust from its tip. She slid it coolly into her pocket and tossed the gun into the nearby dumpster.

Walking with satisfaction from the alley she was suddenly overcome with her earlier vision. Her father had warned her of a betrayal. Had this been the betrayal? But her vision had said he will betray us. She dismissed it. No. It wasn't her. Maybe it was going to be Snakeface. Not anymore, she mused. Her little self-satisfied smile disappeared as with a rumble of thunder the sky opened up and drenched her with a thin stinging rain.

--

Matt sat looking very uncomfortable in the deceptively warmly lit living room of the Kilpatrick house. His hands were clasped in his lap and he was very preoccupied wishing he had never been born. And this was a boy who knew the power of wishes.

Logan was sitting across from the boy, his gaze harder than nails, his eyes not as hot as they could be, he admitted. Hot enough to melt butter, he judged... maybe cheese. Metaphorically, of course. Logan hadn't entertained, even for a second, the idea of telling this kid the truth about him.

Hanna was listening from another room, Logan knew, probably specifically because he had told her not to. He didn't care. Somewhere he must have offended the divinity which guided the universe: this boy had been invited into his house and Logan had no intention of allowing him to think it was going to be an enjoyable experience.

"Just what are your intentions with my daughter?" Logan said coldly. The lights glinted particularly fiercely off his eyes at that moment.

Matt's bright blue eyes widened. "I– I, uh... I'm thirteen. I don't really have... intentions."

"That's the right answer," Logan replied curtly. "Let me lay down some ground rules, just so there are no misunderstandings in the future. I understand you and my daughter attend the same school. This I cannot be troubled to change, so I will allow you to continue seeing her in that capacity. While you are in my house, however, you will not address her, is that clear?" Without waiting for a response, Logan continued. "If you have anything you need to say to her, you can tell her through me or through my wife. You will address me at all times as Mr. Kilpatrick or sir. My wife you will address as Mrs. Kilpatrick but never ma'am. Is that clear?" Again without a pause for a reply, Logan went on. "To avoid confusion, I am not Mr. Patrick. Mr. Patrick was my neighbor. He's dead now. I am Mr. Kilpatrick. Understood?" Logan took a deep breath and doggedly continued. "If there is an earthquake or some form of volcanic eruption and you are accidentally thrown against my daughter, you have the freedom to say 'Excuse me Miss Kilpatrick.' Otherwise you are not to touch my daughter in any way in my presence. If you want to make a good impression on me, you will avoid making eye contact with her." He finally paused for a good three seconds. "Is that understood?"

Matt licked his lips and nodded. "Yes, sir, Mr. Kilpatrick."

"Any questions?" Logan asked, his tone implying none were welcome.

But Matt was brave. "A- actually yes. I- uh, I was wondering..." He seemed to reconsider the question, then found some new stock of bravado and pressed on. "Are you really, like, magic?"

Logan slowly tilted his head to one side. He took a deep breath as if he had actually considered his response. "Is that what my daughter told you?"

Matt nodded, wide eyed.

Logan's eyes shifted back and forth for a moment, then he leaned in conspiratorially. "Can you keep a secret?"

Matt nodded again, vigorously.

Logan, now that he had Matt's undivided attention, leaned in ever closer, taking a breath as if he was going to divulge a terribly important secret. "No."

There was a moment of uncertainty, then Matt sagged in slight disappointment. "Oh."

Logan nodded. "No, I'm not magic. And that's the secret you're going to have to keep, because if my daughter has staked her reputation on this story, you are not going to do anything to undermine it, are you?" The boy shook his head. "You damage her social status, I damage your kneecaps. You make her cry, I make you cry. You make her lose friends, I make you lose fingers." Logan's eyes narrowed to a glare, "got it?"

Matt nodded and swallowed. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all...

Logan stood and extended a rigid hand. Matt jumped to his feet and took the hand that was offered, clenching as hard as he could. As he shook it, he could swear there was an electric charge which seared his hand. The lights dimmed for an instant and the sky rumbled with thunder. As the lights dimmed again, the fierce glint in Logan's eyes remained hot and constant.

Matt's eyes were wide as he looked around, nervously. "Are... are you sure you're not—"

"Good to meet you," Logan said with finality. He released the hand and stalked from the room, the sky grumbling with distant menace.

Matt slowly sat down, massaging his hand. After the lights stabilized again, Hanna hurried into the room, plunking down into the couch beside him. "He said good to meet you," she said optimistically. "I think he likes you!"

Matt slowly turned to look at her, incredulity on his face, as if to ask are you insane?

Hanna shrugged, pulling his hand into hers. "What?" Lightning seared through the night sky with a roar.

--

It was still drizzling when the cool and constant glow of morning found New York with Niki wandering the wet streets. She knew Addison wanted her to meet him at the warehouse, but something was bugging her.

Jesse Trent. There was something about him. Something she couldn't put her finger on. She walked seemingly aimlessly away from her apartment, exactly not towards the warehouse, but only when she looked over to see the alley in which she had killed Snakeface last night did she realize she was only a block away from Trent's, the café.

With a determined frown, she continued towards it, positive there was something wrong with the entire Jesse Trent situation.

--

_August 20__th__, 1981_

Niki sat across from Jimmy in the little café, her coffee untouched. "Are you serious?" she asked with elation.

The young man nodded, his eye contact unwavering. It was clear he was interested in more than her skills as a drummer, but she could handle that. "We need a new drummer anyway. Gretchen's not good for our image. She's a total Valley Girl."

"And she hides it behind a getup that screams hamburglar." Niki shook her head.

"I know, it's creepy." Jimmy leaned back in his chair as an older man approached their table.

"Can I get you young people anything else?" He was obviously anxious for them to leave, the two of them being worse for his image than a Valley Girl for Toe Tag City.

"No thanks, Mr. Trent," Jimmy slipped the folded bills directly into the old man's breast pocket. "We were just leaving anyway."

Niki couldn't hide the smile. A drummer in an actual band!

--

Niki set her jaw and walked angrily to the counter of the café where Jesse was writing something on a notepad. He looked up with a surprised and delighted expression which immediately dissolved upon contact with her eyes.

"Who are you?" she demanded. One or two customers looked up from their coffees at her raised voice.

Jesse gave them a glance, then took the Slayer's arm and led her further into the front corner of the café, away from occupied tables. "Sorry?"

"Mr. Trent," Niki said deliberately, "is in his sixties. Who are you and what do you want with me?"

Jesse nodded patiently. "Ian Forster Trent was my father. He died two years ago. I took over the business. As to what I want with you..." he raised an amused eyebrow and shrugged.

Niki's eyes fell. Oh. "Uh... sorry about your dad," she managed at last.

Jesse nodded. "Yeah... Maybe if he'd said one word to me the last twelve years of his life then I'd be sorry too. But if you're offering to have coffee with me as consolation, then I can be very distraught."

Niki managed a little smile. She looked up and he was holding an adorable look of hopefulness. Finally she rolled her eyes and sighed. "Yeah, sure. I've got no plans anyway."

Jesse grinned widely. He led them to an isolated booth. "Well," he said with a crease in his brow, "you've got my whole family history, I think it's fair if you at least tell me your name."

Niki looked at him for a long moment, examining his every feature, everything that he could possibly be thinking. Somehow her normal Slayer instincts were clouded when she looked at him. "Niki," she said at last, breaking the gaze and wiping her damp palms on her jeans. She realized with chagrin what the feeling was. It had been so long that she hadn't immediately identified the beginnings of simple lust. "Niki Valtaine," she avoided eye contact which made him smile.

"Niki Valtaine," he said with a smile that was nearly a laugh. "Pleased to meet you."

--

Liaisons - Act 4

Niki looked about the alley in the misty yellow light. Shapes, sounds, smells had echoes. Walking across the ground as if it were water, a shape emerged from the cloak of shadow.

Niki opened her mouth to speak but couldn't. Samantha Valtaine stopped just inside the sphere of hazy yellow light. She looked like she did the year she had died. But just like her husband, there was no feeling in her eyes.

"He will betray us," she informed her daughter, before turning and stepping back into the shadow.

"Mom," Niki said quietly. She made no move to follow, knowing she could not. Like everything else in the vision, the stabbing loss echoed painfully through Niki's heart. She awoke with a gasp.

Looking over, her eyes fell across the sleeping form of Jesse Trent. His chest gently rose and fell beneath the rumpled sheet. His eyes were closed and his expression was peaceful. Niki slowly slid her naked form from beneath that same sheet and took her bathrobe from the closet door. Tiptoeing across the room, illuminated in tones of grey in the predawn hours, she winced at the sudden use of certain overused and aching muscles.

She stopped in front of the vanity and examined her weary face. She had known him for only three weeks. She slid one hand up her arm and shivered. It had been worth the wait. This was the first night that Addison had been away, gone back to London for two weeks for a Council meeting and Niki had made sure to take advantage of it.

She let the robe fall to the floor and began to dress, trying to be as quiet as possible. Once she was clothed, she opened the bottom drawer to the chest before her and slid folded pairs of jeans to the side, finding one of the stakes concealed there.

She snatched her beat up leather jacket from the doorknob where she had left it and moved silently out of the apartment, stopping in the kitchen to take the marker from the whiteboard on the fridge and write Be Back Soon.

She gave one last look towards her bedroom before closing the door behind her.

She walked up Park Avenue, letting the smell of the late autumn air clear her mind. Maybe she would walk through the park today.

In the dim light of 4:00 a.m., the first thing she noticed about the group of people following her was their footsteps. With a casual sidestep, she left the sidewalk and entered an alley. They followed.

Niki stood waiting, a good twenty paces into the increased darkness offered by the narrow gap between the buildings. There were a lot more of them than she had anticipated. She would have brought two stakes. And maybe some thermite.

The entire Goth coven had come to find her. Thirty seven vampires, all dressed in black and paler than death in the small amount of light available. They all entered the alley, forming a shoulder to shoulder wall several bodies deep. They appeared very angry.

Niki steeled herself for the opening round of insults and promises of death and pain. Slaying was as much an exercise in wit as it was a physical battle, although, Niki admitted, she had yet to actually win a battle with witty comebacks alone. She gripped the stake tightly.

One of the female vamps took a few steps forward, her lips black and her left eyebrow completely silver with piercings. She appeared small enough, but she had the confidence of a second in command having suddenly found herself in charge. With a bitter expression, she reached into her flowing dark coat and took out a small silver Beretta. The Goths behind her retrieved their own firearms, various sizes from subcompacts to revolvers to sawed off shotguns.

The Goth chick glared at Niki with a cold and terrible hatred. "We're through with you, bitch."

Niki tensed, ready to dive for cover or leap into the air. She was completely unprepared for what came next. With infinite bitterness, the Goth before her tossed her gun to the ground with a clatter. One by one, then two by two, the vamps behind her followed suit, tossing their weapons to the pavement. Among the clattering of the gunmetal was the clink of thirty seven silver bracelets hitting the pavement.

The look of intense bitterness pervaded the entire assembly as they began to leave the alley, stepping over the scattered weapons. The chick who had obviously made this unpopular decision was the last to leave, glaring at the Slayer all the while her coven dispersed into the early morning.

"You're full of shit," she said spitefully, "we're going to Cleveland." The Goth turned on her heel and stormed out of the alley, leaving the thoroughly stunned Niki crouching in the darkness.

Blink. "Uh... what?"

--

Logan frowned as he turned the page. Not only was his new firm aware of his supernatural skills, they encouraged it. A copy of Vox Vocis Incendia had been left on his desk and Logan was finally getting around to reading it. He was on chapter sixteen and it had so far cleverly disguised the fact that it was teaching him how to set people on fire with correct words and intonation. Anyone who didn't know that that was what it was saying... wouldn't know that that's what it was saying.

He shifted his shoulders on the headboard of the bed, leaning a little closer to the reading lamp as the last rays of the sun disappeared. The house was quiet. Hanna was out at a friend's house, theoretically a female friend, but Logan knew it was Matt's place. The boy had resolved that since he could virtually not even breath in Logan's presence, he was going to remove Hanna from her own home as often as possible.

Logan finally looked up to the doorway to the bedroom when the silhouette of Rachel remained there for an uncomfortably long period of time. His frown deepened. "Hi, honey," he said with worry in his eyes. "What is it?"

"Tell me again where you got that bracelet," she said quietly, her arms hugged across her chest. She didn't make a move to enter the bedroom.

Logan blinked. "Uh... what?" His stomach turned.

"You told me it was a Medic Alert bracelet– that you were allergic to haloperidol." She tightened the embrace of her own arms. "Haloperidol is an antipsychotic."

Logan's eyes fell. He didn't even know where he had left the bracelet. Stupid, little, piece of—

"There's no reason for an EMT to give you haloperidol, so there's no reason to have a Medic Alert bracelet warning of an allergy to it." She continued to look at him as he tried futilely to think of some other excuse. She knew him well enough to know that's what he was doing. "Who gave you that bracelet?" she asked in the same quiet tone.

Logan's attention snapped up again. "It's not what you think," he defended hotly. At least that wasn't a lie.

"What do I think?" she asked quietly.

"She... she was in some trouble and I helped her out of it," Logan tried to explain in terms of any normal person's sense of reality. Of course, any normal person would be quick to point out the sex.

"Who is she?" Rachel asked, fighting to remain calm.

"You wouldn't know her," wrong answer, Logan clenched his teeth as soon as he finished saying it. Well done, moron, he cursed as her tone grew sharp with anger.

"Who is she?" Rachel demanded, uncrossing her arms and taking an angry step towards the bed where Logan still lay with the book in his hands.

He slowly put the book down and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He measured his breath carefully, resolved to think carefully about his answers from now on. "Her name is Niki," he said quietly.

Rachel crossed her arms again compulsively, shifting her weight uncertainly to the other foot. The next question was obviously difficult to bear. "Did you sleep with her?"

Logan kept his eyes on her and thought for a long moment about his answer. Three seconds and Rachel looked away, her eyes glittering in the lamplight. She brought a hand to her eyes and turned for the door again.

"It's over," Logan said weakly, his eyes dropping to the floor.

She turned on him, the anger in her eyes and voice again. "It fucking better be!" Though her eyes were still red from tears, her demeanor had gone from betrayed to accusing. She held up a trembling finger as she took another step closer to him. "If you ever see her again—"

Logan swallowed and nodded once. For once he was telling her the truth. He could live with never seeing Niki again. From where he now sat he couldn't imagine why he had done it in the first place. Niki hadn't considered him anything more than a convenience. He shuddered to think of what his stupid juvenile desires had risked. Hanna and Rachel were what mattered.

As she turned to go, he glanced regretfully towards the book he had been reading. She must know every word.

"You're sleeping on the couch tonight," she tossed back bitterly as she left the room.

--

Niki wasn't sure what the universe was playing at, but the rules of the game kept getting more and more screwed up. The Goths had... surrendered? Was that what she should call it? The Slayer wasn't really interested in a live and let... un-live policy when it came to vampires. She wanted them dead and that was all there was to it. But she obviously wasn't going on a field trip to Cleveland just to take out a Goth coven. You're not allowed to surrender, Niki insisted to herself, it's not good for my image! What was the score up to now? She'd fought them, fought beside them, negotiated peace treaties with them, broken those treaties, fought them again and now reluctantly accepted their surrender and allowed their retreat. Any history book might think she was fighting the Soviets.

Niki looked now at her one redeeming victory. Harrison was breathing on his own, but still solidly in his coma. His hair had covered the scar across his scalp. She was unable to do anything but look at him. She drew a lock of her own hair from her face and leaned in closer, listening to his breathing. It was calming. Unlike her own breathing. What was he thinking in that infinite playground behind his eyes? Was he thinking about her? Did he think of her as his arch nemesis? Was he plotting?

She leaned in closer, trying to see through his eyelids to the images which he replayed over and over. The smile returned to her face. Poor little man. He had had the misfortune of finding his way into a completely new world. Her world. A brave new world of evil he had never encountered before. She had led him there, like a cruel parody of Alice's White Rabbit. And he would never tell a soul what he knew.

--

Jesse quickly pulled the drawer from its recess in the dresser, turning it over and spilling the contents to the floor. With practiced hands he rummaged through the growing pile of clothes, searching.

He turned over a pair of jeans and several long objects were exposed on top of the pile. He paused, initially thinking they were something entirely different. Upon closer examination, they were made of wood and were pointed. His hand slowly reached for one, lifting it into the harsh light of his determined gaze.

This particular stake was covered in dried blood.


	6. Principles of Evil

Principles of Evil - Act 1

Vaguely like a wolf. That was the impression Logan got when the case was slapped down on his desk. One nasty looking demon. And it was only a head shot.

The defense attorney drew in a breath and drew his hand slowly down the side of his tired cheek. Should have been a poet.

Wehx. The demon allegedly responsible for the slaughter of over seventy people. Logan knew by now that if Wolfram and Hart had accepted the case, then it was because they knew he was guilty. Logan didn't want to think about how Wehx was going to appear for arraignment, or how the police had managed to take him into custody in the first place – looking like a wolf as he did. There was undoubtedly an explanation. The explanation undoubtedly involved Tawnie, someone she knew or someone she had extorted and a great deal of the sort of magic Logan couldn't yet touch.

Logan examined the file closer and sighed. Wehx had been charged early last year for a similar crime, but this very firm had got him acquitted. The demon's lawyer for that case had been Gregory Rhoyle. Now deceased.

Logan knew he'd be going over the transcript of that case, considering how similar they were, but obviously the prosecution felt they had more on Wehx this time or they wouldn't have bothered wasting taxpayers' money.

Logan examined the police report. The city's investigation had been short. Depressingly short. Damningly short. Someone had reported screams coming from Wehx's residence. Police had arrived and found a human finger in the overgrown weeds outside his door. They had broken in and found twenty seven people bound in the basement. There were dozens of other bodies in various stages of decomposition apparently having died to satisfy Wehx's peculiar taste for human marrow.

As Logan turned the page, a small 8 ½ by 11 inch blue sheaf slid out from among the legal paper. On it was stamped his firm's crest and the W&H symbol. Logan knew the format. This was privileged information which the prosecution would never get their hands on and was for the eyes of this firm only. There was an entire shift of people, working day and night somewhere in this very building, whose job it was to shred these blue documents. Then incinerate the shreddings.

Logan Kilpatrick closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids. He was beginning to get the distinct impression that this evil law firm might just be corrupt. He had to hand it to them, though. The efficiency of their corruption shamed the legitimate productivity of most other firms. They were good at what they did. Even if what they did wasn't good at all.

But Logan wasn't like that. He couldn't in good conscience, something he was sure he had, continue to participate in this sort of blatant circumvention of justice. Logan had felt he was committed to justice, even if the line between justice and personal vengeance was often a blurry one. But he was certain there was a line. There was a limit between questionably good and simply evil.

Logan let the file fall from his fingers onto the desk and stood. He marched towards the office now occupied by the liaison to the Senior Partners. Tawnie had hired someone to take care of reception for her and had moved up here to the prestigious floor. She had even hired someone to take care of her office up here in the prestigious floor.

"Excuse me, you can't just go in there–" the secretary cautioned as Logan made his way for the door to Tawnie's inner office. "Ms. Fischer is in with someone."

"I'll wait," Logan said shortly, sitting impatiently on one of the chairs laid out in the outer office.

After several moments, the door opened and a young man with sandy brown hair and a mullet stepped from the office, his face unreadable.

"Thank you for coming to me first," Tawnie said from behind him. "It'll be dealt with very soon." She looked around the reception office and saw Logan standing there. She sighed impatiently.

Logan stood and opened his mouth to speak when a voice cut him off. "I'm here for my one twenty seven." The voice was cool and soft. Logan turned and saw a young black man with tight black pants and a white shirt which flowed about as if it were made of silk. There was a blue silk tie holding it to his neck at the collar but otherwise it moved about like a sail in a calm wind. "Name's Michael."

The secretary checked her schedule. One twenty seven. Micheal. She nodded and the man stepped forward but Logan stepped in front of him. "I'll just be a minute." And with that he stepped past Tawnie into her office. She rolled her eyes and closed the door behind them.

"Look, Logan, I'm a busy woman. I don't have time for a little tryst today."

"I want another case," he said, folding his arms and turning back to face her.

"Don't you have enough work as it is?" She came around to sit down at her desk.

"No, I mean I want a different case. Not this mass murdering Wehx demon." He stepped forward and took a seat across from her.

Tawnie raised an eyebrow and replied with a wry grin. "Too hard for you?"

He sneered. "Hardly. I got that creepy shaman off and he was as guilty as Manson."

The liaison held up a cautionary finger. "Be careful," she said with stern eyes. "Guilt or innocence is determined by twelve jurors. Not by you."

"Bullshit," he spat. "You've been feeding me nothing but this faith in the system bullshit since your firm came in here and ate my firm for lunch. Not one of my clients hasn't actually committed the crime for which I've gotten them an acquittal. Is that a coincidence?" She was silent for a moment. "Is it a coincidence?" he demanded louder, leaning forward and planting his hands on her desk.

"How's Rachel?"

The question was like a cold hand brushing up against him. He slowly took his hands from the table. "What are you saying?"

"I'm asking a question," she shrugged. "I'm wondering about the well-being of your wife. I understand you recently had a bit of an argument."

"We're fine," he said coldly.

"You said we're fine," Tawnie noticed with a nod. "You and your wife are like one, aren't you?" Logan said nothing. "You know what Shakespear would have called Rachel? A hostage to fortune. You're in this —whatever this is— and so is she. If you cross me, so does she."

Logan took her meaning as clear as could be. He said nothing. If they could get to Rachel, they could get to Hanna. He was very quiet. Very quietly working against the urge to strangle this woman. Maybe turn her to ice. Maybe set her on fire. It would only put them at risk. He had only one option.

"Do you know what Friedrich Nietzsche said?" Tawnie interrupted his thoughts. "He said

'He who lives by fighting with an enemy has an interest in the preservation of the enemy's life.' Don't think everyone here is evil just because we represent evil. There are some good people within these walls. In the end, corruption is a choice each of us has to make."

"I quit," Logan said simply. After a moment, he stood from the desk and turned away. "I'll have my office cleaned out by the end of the day."

"You don't quit," she said as he reached for the doorknob. This made him turn back, but his hand still held the door. "You have one more case to handle."

"I don't think so," Logan turned and opened the door. Michael was waiting patiently on the other side. He looked up as Logan appeared at the open door.

"Believe me, you'll want this case." Tawnie swiveled in her chair and lifted the file from her desk. She came to the door and handed it to Logan.

The attorney gave her a resentful glance before opening the folder. Then the color drained from his face. His eyes never left the page. "You're giving this case to me?" Tawnie nodded, and though he didn't see her, he knew it. "Is this a coincidence too?"

"There's no such thing as coincidences," she answered with satisfaction. "Finish Wehx's case, then you'll find this on your desk. After that, you can quit to your heart's content."

Logan, his eyes glued to the page before him —the privileged blue sheet on top— swallowed. What would Nietzsche say about this? "Fuck me," he whispered.

Tawnie grinned. "I knew you'd come around." She snatched the file from Logan's hands and nodded towards Michael who wandered in with a sideward glance toward the stunned attorney. "Oh, and by the way," she said with a grin, as Logan turned to go, "Wehx's former lawyer —the late Gregory Rhoyle..." She cocked her head slightly, "Wehx drank his bone marrow before ripping his throat out." She blinked. "And that was after the verdict of not guilty."

The door closed in Logan's face.

--

Richard Addison dropped his suitcase but kept his steel briefcase, looking about the apartment suspiciously. Niki made a grab for the briefcase but he held onto it, absently examining every detail about the kitchen as if something was dreadfully wrong.

"Want me to take that?" Niki looked with poorly concealed interest at the metal case the old Watcher still held. He hadn't had it when he left for England.

"They're just some confidential files," he said distantly, his eyes finally finding the whiteboard on the fridge. "Are you seeing Logan again?"

She followed his gaze to the fridge and cursed in her mind. Got to go - see you tonite, said the whiteboard, and not in the Slayer's handwriting. She had made a mental note to erase that. Obviously mental notes weren't as prominent as physical ones. She sighed.

"No, I'm not seeing Logan. His name's Jesse. I've been seeing him for a month now. Don't worry – he doesn't know anything."

"Hmm," the Watcher grumbled, dragging one of his many suitcases into the room reserved for him and wandering out of sight of the door in order to place his steel case somewhere Niki couldn't see. "I suppose there's no harm," he said. "Assuming he's not married or psychotic or anything like that?"

Niki frowned a little. "Logan wasn't psychotic."

The Watcher emerged from his room with raised eyebrow. "There's still time."

Niki laughed. "How was your trip, pops?"

"Relaxing," he said with a sigh. "It was good to be back where people know what a lorry is." He plunked down in the sofa. "So how is the Goth situation progressing?"

"It's been resolved," the Slayer answered, rubbing off the message on the whiteboard. "We won't be hearing from them again."

The man with the white hair nodded appreciatively. "Good, good. Any other news?" He had been looking distractedly at the softy reporting television news man, but now glanced to her back as she began to doodle on the fridge with the black marker.

"News?" She answered, sketching stars and stripes and bolding GOD BLESS — "What kinda news?"

"Oh, any kinds," Addison dismissed. "Never mind."

Niki turned on him and capped the marker with a frown. "You have news, don't you?"

Addison raised his eyebrows and let out a deep breath. "I met Whistler at the airport," he said at last. "He wants you to go see Jessica. I don't know who Jessica is, but I expect this isn't good."

Niki studied his face. No, it wasn't good. But then, when had it ever been— scratch that. She wouldn't lie to herself. It had been good. When everything was clear and simple. It was good then. When she and Logan and a man in a KISS shirt had spent nights at the Nail Biter. It was good then.

"It'll be fine," she said with a convincing smile. "Everything will be fine."

--

Principles of Evil - Act 2

Logan had had to drive for forty five minutes to find a bar where he was sure he could get what he wanted. He had spent the drive alternately thinking about Rachel and Hanna and what he had gotten them into — what they didn't know they were in and how he was going to get out of this... and how he was going to ask for what he wanted.

What he wanted was simple. In all the vast and interlocking network of evil in the state of New York, there had to be death on demand for those who could pay. It was practically a given.

He realized, as he pulled his car through the alley towards the back lot of the bar, what he looked like now. What he was doing —what he was— was a far cry from what he had imagined when he was younger. A far cry from what he had anticipated the 'good fight' would be when he had first met Niki on that lonely little bridge in Central Park. His whole life was a far cry. And the words it was crying weren't pleasant.

Logan had finally decided, in the solitude of his office earlier today, that there was only one thing he could in all conscience do with his client. And now he was in search of a hit man who could make it happen.

The moment he stepped into the bar he wrinkled his nose. 'Hole in the wall' wasn't an adequate description. Every surface in sight, he imagined, was sticky. Every surface which wasn't in sight... he didn't want to think about that.

The patchy concrete floor no doubt contributed to the dank cave-smell which permeated the place. He yearned for the smell of the Biter – cigarettes and beer. No one drank beer at this place.

Logan made his way towards the pool of red light which illuminated the bar at the center of the room. There were only a few people sitting there. The rest seemed to be doing something else — something noisy in a room beyond a curtain towards the back.

"What can I get you?" The muscle at the bar grunted, as if he was annoyed just to have to ask this question.

Logan looked up to a small chalkboard on which had been scrawled some illegible drink names. The one he could read he ordered. "Smyte," he said with authority.

The barkeep began mixing, filling a small glass with rye, added a few ice cubes and finally taking out a small glass bottle. At first Logan thought it might be vodka, but, turned in the light, the bottle showed its label; a small cruciform. The barkeep pulled the glass stopper from the bottle and allowed a few drops of holy water to drip into the rye.

He slid the smyte in front of Logan and replaced the glass bottle under the bar. "Six fifty," he said with a grunt.

Logan payed him and looked around the nearly empty establishment. "Slow night?"

The barkeep snorted. "All the business is in back," he thumbed towards the curtain from behind which all sorts of vile noises were coming.

"Party?" Logan asked, craning his neck.

The muscle laughed heartily at Logan's expense. "Yeah... that's right. A party."

"Am I invited?" Logan wasn't sure he wanted to be invited, but there was no one here who could help him. The back seemed more promising.

The barkeep eyed him suspiciously for a minute, more for having asked than for having wanted in. Everyone who was currently at the 'party' had either just walked in or had been dragged, screaming and kicking. "You ain't gonna throw a fit and call the cops?" Logan scoffed at this, acting as insulted as he imagined anyone else might. The barkeep finally nodded. "Ten bucks cover charge."

Logan nodded and payed, leaving his smyte untouched. He approached the curtain with internal hesitation but only confidence showing in his stride. He could handle anything this party could offer.

Sweeping the curtain aside, his stomach told him how wrong he was. His legs, on the other hand, still imbued with false confidence, carried him over the threshold and into certainly someone's version of hell.

The cement wall between this room and the bar had done well to cover the ear-splitting pounding of the music – if it could be called that. The curtain had done its part and kept the smell contained. This room was lit by black lights and strobe lights, giving everything the quality of an intermittent photographic negative, making all eyes and fingernails come alive with light, even if they belonged to things which had been dead for hours.

From the high ceiling hung five naked women, strips of their flesh removed occasionally by readily available knives or claws, and eaten by the partygoers. Logan looked up and could see that the corpses were hanging by their feet from the vertices of a phosphorescent pentagram painted on the ceiling.

Upon further inspection, he could see that only two of the five were in fact genuine corpses. The other three were still struggling against their ropes as they were slowly turned into hors d'oeuvres. Logan knew he was going to be sick. It was just a question of when.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of a peaceful lake. Gentle ripples crossed its surface. A boat drifted lazily— Then he opened his eyes again. He had a job to do... or rather, a job to undermine.

Logan made his way through the sea of moving bodies, demons and vampires and humans alike, all having a wonderful time. Near the walls there were large cushions upon which vampires and humans were laying, seemingly passed out, tourniquets wrapped tightly around their arms.

Logan began to understand what this was, as he found a table at the center of the room, between the five women, upon which was a large bin of needles and several kilograms of heroine. Some sort of elaborate demon shooting party. He turned away and found himself facing a young woman, her face thin and drawn, her eyes flashing white in the strobe light. Her hands clutched his arms and she was drawing him towards one of the mats on the floor.

Logan, with horror, managed to extricate himself only by shoving her to the floor and disappearing back into the crowd. He was now resolved to find what he wanted and get the hell out.

Just then, a potential candidate took him by the shoulder and spun him around. Logan found himself looking at the ugly mug of a demon. Though the strobe light was flashing unstoppably and the black light was flooding the room otherwise with its ultraviolet rays, this demons eyes remained unlit.

"I need someone killed," Logan shouted immediately over the incomparably loud music and, he realized, screams. He was sure he hadn't been heard as the demon turned around and began to move away. But when Logan didn't follow, the demon turned back and inclined his head towards the curtain and the quieter bar beyond.

The demon exited into the bar with the lawyer in tow. The demon selected a table particularly concealed by darkness and sat down, finding a handful of nuts from a bowl at the center. "Speak," he said once Logan had seated himself.

Logan slid the file photo of Wehx onto the table. "I need him killed as soon as possible. I don't care how."

The demon shrugged. "I only kill for free if I'm hungry."

"How much do you want?" Logan reached for his chequebook but the demon laughed.

"And I only kill for money when I'm very, very drunk." He munched on the nuts and reached for more. "I work for favors. Is that something you can handle?"

Logan stayed his hand in his jacket. He was extremely uncomfortable promising favors to this demon. He would much rather part with, say, a kidney. But what choice did he have. "I can handle that," he agreed.

"Good," the demon nodded, taking the picture from the table. "Now... tell me, what sort of favors would you possibly be able to promise me?"

Logan looked around the bar for a moment, then down at the small bowl of nuts. He swallowed and pointed a finger. Presto. Roasted nuts. The slight wisp of smoke rose to the ceiling.

The demon nodded, his smile pulling back to reveal large, disturbing teeth. "Interesting."

--

Jessica held the teen's hand, thinking hard about how to tell her what was involved in her future. It wouldn't do to tell them that her father was going to be in a car accident. Too specific. She pretended to examine the young woman's hand with a troubled look. The troubled look soon spread to the owner of the hand, then to her boyfriend.

"What is it?" she asked in a voice masking worry.

Assuming they wouldn't believe what Jessica would tell them, it was pointless to have them feel guilty about it later. What a terribly futile job she had. But the futility was a shield against the ignorance of society.

"You will be drawn closer to ones you love," she said as if reading it from the woman's palm, "the bonds of family will be strained very soon, but will only prove stronger." Then Jessica looked up suddenly, another vision forcing its way into her mind. She blinked rapidly and her vision resolved upon the now very worried look of her customer. "Uh... Your life line is strong and healthy, you will discover love that will prove true." She pulled her hand back and swallowed as the girl turned to her boyfriend and smiled.

"I already have," she said warmly, taking his hand into hers.

Jessica gagged internally but forced the smile onto her face. The jerk was banging the girl's younger sister. Tonight he was going to ask for a threesome. She would dump him and after her father's death would move closer to home and find true love with the boy next door. Well... true enough.

"Have a lovely day," she said, knowing who her next customer would be.

"You too," they smiled and left. Niki stepped forward, her arms crossed.

The Slayer held her fingers crossed over her temple, as if projecting her thoughts. "I'm thinking... gag me with a... spoon?"

Jessica sneered and flipped the sign from 'open' to 'back in 5'. "Sit down, Knicks."

"Whistler said I should come and see you."

Jessica nodded. "I told him to pass it along. You don't frequent these halls as often as a normal girl ought to."

"That's not what you need to tell me, I'm guessing," Niki raised an eyebrow and held her arms tighter.

"No." There was silence for a moment and Niki let her head sag.

"Silence is never a good sign." The Slayer threw up her hands. "I never get good signs — just once I'd like a seer to tell me 'you will be very wealthy...'"

"Someone's betrayed you," Jessica said outright.

"Been conversing with my dearly departed parents, have you?" Niki crossed her arms again. "They were similarly vague."

"They were vague for a reason. I'm being as specific as I can be." Jessica leaned in close, her expression completely serious. "You need to run away. Go home, pack your things and run as far away as you can — get out of the country if you can, but you'll have to leave tonight."

"Why?" Niki hissed, leaning in close as well. "What's going on? Who's betrayed me?"

Jessica shrugged harshly. "I don't know everything!" She glanced left and right and leaned in a bit farther. "I just get flashes. I don't control it. Gimme a frickin' break already." She calmed herself and sat back a little. "All I know is, you've been betrayed by someone close to you and you need to run away. Quickly." There was a pause as Niki tried comprehend if Jessica was serious. The seer cocked her head, unsure of the delay. "Like... now!"

Niki jumped to her feet and turned to go. Jessica stopped her. "There's one more thing," the seer called after her. Niki turned with a frown. What could possibly be—

"Harrison's awake."

--

Addison pulled the steel case from the closet where he had buried it under some of his old clothes. He lifted it carefully onto his bed and slid the key into the lock, popping the latches and opening the lid.

Nestled inside the black foam were four small objects. Three side by side, one along the top. He lifted the first from the middle and looked at it in the light of the bedside lamp. Amanitin. He looked down at the other two but left them where they were. Coniine and batrachotoxin sat innocently inside their own glass vials. Amanitin was a cyclic peptide. The other two were neurotoxins. All of them were lethal in surprisingly small concentrations. Across the top, nestled into the black foam was a hypodermic syringe, its needle encased in a plastic tube.

Addison set the Amanitin back in its place. He gently closed the lid of the briefcase. This was the Council's solution. Amanitin was derived from the flesh of the Destroying Angel fungus. Coniine from Poison Hemlock. Batrachotoxin from the South American Poison Dart frog. Each one was classic and vicious. In the age of the sniper rifle, no one used poison any more.

But Niki could dodge bullets.

--

Principles of Evil - Act 3

Wehx growled in a very wolfish fashion through his W&H sustained disguise. The man who lay dead at his feet had not been disguised. The man who lay dead at his feet had been a hit man. A cheap hit man. Wehx growled again. So cheap he had given up his client after only five minutes of torture. This new lawyer... he was a fool.

The wolf disguised as a small oriental man stepped away from the body and hailed a cab. He couldn't risk drinking this demon's marrow. He had an acquittal to get. Logan had won him bail so he could be killed, but Wehx still intended to get acquitted. Once Wolfram and Hart discovered that his lawyer had been killed, they would find him a new one. Perhaps a better one.

The taxi sped off into the night.

The demon found Logan leaving the office building and jumped from the cab to chase after him. The cabby was shouting something, but Wehx had Logan in his sights and wasn't about to let him get away.

The demon leapt high into the air to cross the distance between them faster, ignoring the fact that he had given away his identity. The lawyer would have figured it out eventually anyway, perhaps when the strange oriental man began eating his flesh and drinking his bone marrow in a dark alley somewhere.

Wehx cursed. No, couldn't do that; need the acquittal. When his hands grasped the man's tan jacket, they immediately pulled away, as if burnt. What the bloodied farg was this? He had signed a contract with Wolfram and Hart which protected him against magic!

Wehx snarled and snatched the puny lawyer again, ignoring the burning sensation and shoving him onto the ground. Instantly, a bolt of fiery yellow light seared towards him and sizzled across his skin. Wehx looked down and saw that his disguise was dissolving off his body. In a few moments, a hulking wolf-like thing was standing where before had been a short man.

The bolts of energy continued, but now Wehx could not feel them, the terms of his contract falling into place. Wehx the demon was immune to low-level magical interference which might adversely affect the quality of his defense or otherwise return an unfavorable verdict at trial. Designed to protect W&H clients from magical tampering during trial, the contract now left Logan quite helpless.

Wehx took a deep breath and roared a blast of foul smelling breath at the man on the ground. The taxi behind him did a U-turn in the middle of the street and sped away with the screech of tires. Wehx made a lunge for the lawyer, his fangs bared.

There was a twist of light and the man vanished. The demon shouted in rage, then looked over as the small brown car with Logan in the driver's seat came charging out of the underground lot and screeched around the corner and down the street.

A smile spread across the demon's face. It was a chase he wanted. A chase he would get.

--

Niki shoved a handful of white T-shirts into one of the suitcases Addison had emptied earlier. He was asleep now and could not protest her decision to leave. She'd write him a message on the whiteboard.

For all she knew, it was Addison who had betrayed her, though she didn't see how. He hadn't even been around. That didn't leave many other options though, did it? The same seer who had told her to run because she had been betrayed had told her to stick with someone she trusted. If she had trusted anyone, then the betrayal would just be worse, wouldn't it?

She grabbed some stakes from her bottom drawer and slid them into the suitcase. She'd be needing them where she was going. There was at least one coven in Cleveland.

Just then the phone startled her out of her packing frenzy. She jumped and ran for the kitchen, seizing the phone from the wall before it could ring again and wake the sleeping Watcher.

"What?" she hissed into it. It was an ungodly hour, meaning it was probably an ungodly phone call.

"Niki," Logan's voice was hurried and urgent. "I need you, I need your help— there's a really pissed off demon after me and he—"

"Hey, that's not my fault," the Slayer hissed into the phone. "You've got powers; use 'em."

"I can't– I can't," he sucked in a breath. "I know it's not your fault: it's my fault. I tried to have this demon killed but he's after me now. He's got some kind of anti-magic protection spell on him. I need you. Niki he's going to kill me and then he's going to kill my family."

Niki let out an angry breath. She swallowed, looking around the kitchen as if it would provide some answers. "Where are you?"

"I've tried to lead it away from Freeport and closer to you— I'm in a phone booth near East 40th street. How soon can you get here— he's right behind me."

"I'm leaving right now." She hung up the phone and donned her leather jacket. Before heading for the door she stopped in front of Addison's room. She put her ear up to the door. Hearing nothing, she gently opened the door. In the darkness she could detect no movement. She wanted him still asleep when she got back. She had no intention of having another one of their 'discussions' where he would make her sit for three hours and tell her she was a failure and that's why she couldn't just run away. She would have to finish off this demon and be back before sunrise.

Closing the door she made her way to the front door and left with as little noise as she could.

--

Addison, for his part, was nowhere near his room. And despite the ungodly hour, he was fully awake. He was, in fact, sitting across from a particularly ungodly woman.

"Well, it's what we do," the woman argued. "And this is going to be particularly satisfying."

"And that's your final position?" the Watcher asked, his fingers clasped on her desk, his white eyebrow raised diplomatically. "There's nothing I can do to change your mind?"

Tawnie smiled broadly. "Your charm doesn't go that far, Richard. Your days of sweeping women off their feet are gone."

"You understand why I have to try," he lifted his hands from her desk and sat back, the charm melting from his face. "You know I can't allow this to happen."

Tawnie smiled, this time with a sinister gleam in her eyes. "Just try and stop us. We've got the system on our side. What have you got?"

Addison drew in a breath and shrugged. "We've got me."

Tawnie scoffed. "The entire state of New York is trembling, I'm sure. You can be sure the state will get a tremendous amount of pleasure from this, but I guarantee you not nearly as much as the Senior Partners. Your incompetence has handed us this on a silver platter." She lowered her head as a mocking bow. "Our thanks."

"You underestimate me," Addison remained impassive to her mockery. "I may be too old to sweep women off their feet, but I can knock them down like I'm in my twenties. What you call incompetence I call subtlety... shrewdness perhaps. At the end of the day, I promise you, all you'll be left with is your damned silver platter."

"We'll see," Tawnie didn't let his words get to her. He was a foolish old man. Perhaps he would have been considered shrewd in his prime, but that was thirty years ago. "We'll see very soon how shrewd you still are."

"And if I fail," he said with sudden amicability, "I've still got resources. In fact, I'd probably still be employed. You on the other hand, should you fail, would have to explain to your revered Senior Partners exactly why they shouldn't feed you to the crabs." He frowned as if pondering something. "I think there must be a Nietzsche quote there somewhere." He snapped his fingers. "'Distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful,'" he quoted with a triumphant grin.

"Let's not forget who was responsible for Nietzsche's death." Tawnie raised an eyebrow. "What a credit to the Senior Partners: they killed the man who killed God."

Addison chuckled. "And how they have fallen from grace, picking on a pathetic little girl."

Tawnie shrugged. "We do what we can."

--

Principles of Evil - Act 4

Logan let the bolts of energy fly, backing up. Wehx didn't seem to feel it, but at least it made him blink. The ground was frozen with each step Logan made, but he knew it wasn't on his account. It was winter now and the biting wind was making him shiver. The trick of heating his body didn't work to simply keep him warm. And teleportation was too exhausting to do more than once in such a short period of time. He didn't want to end up ten feet away but too tired to run.

Logan reached out with an invisible hand and took hold of a mailbox, ripping it from the sidewalk and throwing it at the advancing wolf-demon. The demon didn't even flinch as the metal box wrapped itself around him and clattered to the street.

Wehx advanced slowly, intent on backing this man into an alley or somewhere where he could take his time. He didn't want anyone seeing and giving Wolfram and Hart a harder time than necessary to get him acquitted. He wasn't an insensitive client.

With a howl he charged, going down on all fours and gnashing his teeth. With a shout of fear, Logan rose suddenly into the air, hovering about twenty feet up the side of the building.

Wehx stopped beneath him, leaping once and realizing he couldn't reach. He let out a whine of disappointment and pawed at the wall of the building.

Logan struggled to breath. It was taking all his strength to keep this high. If he let it slip — if he even looked down, he was sure he would fall into the waiting jaws.

Wehx licked his lips. He could wait. Soon the lawyer would tire, then— the demon's head snapped to the side as Niki's foot connected with its jaw. She did a back flip out of range as it swung its paws towards her, then rolled to the side as it charged her. She drove her foot under its stomach as it tried to turn towards her mid-charge, making it yelp in pain.

Wehx scampered back and got back up onto two legs. With a snarl of a smile, he looked over to see Logan standing on the street again, one hand against the wall, panting. The demon dropped back onto all fours to charge.

But the Slayer took him in a bear hug, pulling the wolf-thing onto its back. She drove her fist into its throat since she didn't want to risk getting a tooth lodged in her knuckle. It whined and she slammed her elbow into its ribs.

Finally Wehx got a hind paw under her and threw her off. She landed hard and he charged, fell on her, tearing at her leather coat with his claws. Then something heavy landed on his back, striking him over and over.

The demon snarled and turned his head from Niki's defensive arms and caught the mail box to the face. The demon leapt from the fallen Slayer and jumped back a safe distance as Logan raised the bent metal for another swing. Instead he helped Niki to her feet and the two stood panting, waiting for the demon's next move.

"What did you do," Niki panted, slowly removing her nearly shredded leather jacket, "to get him so pissed off?"

Logan slowly set down the heavy hunk of twisted metal. "I decided the penal system wasn't right for him."

"He's your client?" she demanded with an incredulous expression. "Did I miss something?"

"Didn't I tell you I was a criminal defense lawyer now?" both kept their eyes firmly on the hulking wolf which was deciding exactly how to disembowel them both.

"Hm," Niki said with a raised eyebrow. "You any good?"

Logan slowly turned to look at her. "So far I haven't really had an opportunity to—"

"Look out," Niki shoved him out of the way as Wehx chose his moment to attack. He landed on the Slayer and they rolled to the ground, exchanging punches for slashes and bites for curses.

Logan limped away from the pair and doubled over, breathing deeply as he tried to summon power he prayed he still had. With a rush of cold winter wind, he raised his hands and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his pupils had darkened to nearly black and in the quiet street, wind was rushing only around him.

Niki got her hands under the wolf's chin and held his deadly mouth as far away as she could, while the bulk of his body kept her pinned to the ground. Finally, she got her knee under his ribs and gave him a vicious jerk. A distant rushing soon got louder and Niki tried to look past the twisting wolfish form to see what was making it.

Suddenly the wolf's body was torn from her own as a huge dark mass swept over them. With an earsplitting crash and the sound of shattering glass, Logan's small brown car flew a foot off the ground and ploughed into the demon, smashing into the brick wall and pinning him there.

Niki slowly got to her feet, brushing the bits of glass from her clothes and hair. She turned and looked at the remains of the car sandwiching the demon against the wall. Its neck was broken and a faint gurgling was coming from deep in its throat.

She turned and looked towards Logan who was sitting on the cold sidewalk, his head cradled in his hand. She stared at him for some minutes, thinking what to do. Two years ago she wouldn't have hesitated to go over to him. She would have cradled him in her arms, kissed him. Maybe more. But he wasn't her addiction anymore. She let her gaze fall and swallowed. With quiet steps she made her way away from the mangled wrack of the car and the mangled wreck of the man and headed for home.

Logan wondered seriously if he would have enough strength in a few moments to draw breath. He tried not to move, tried not to think. Tried not to think about how hard he was trying not to move. His brain felt like an empty vacuum which might implode his skull at any moment.

When thinking became easier, he finally allowed the mess to sink in. So much for taking the law into his own hands. He laughed inside. Who, if not a lawyer, was more justified in taking the law into his own hands? Hadn't that demon been evil? But it certainly would have won. The injustice in the simple order of nature had made sure of that. Injustice wasn't just a fact of the system, or even of his place in the firm which thrived in the system. Injustice was the air he breathed and the cruel choices he was given.

The air was thin now and the choices... Logan chuckled and immediately regretted it. His choices were the evil. Choosing virtue got you killed. Choosing good over evil made you evil's first target.

He slowly tilted his head to search the street for Niki. She was gone. Good. He had chosen her, once upon a time. What an evil that had turned out to be. Chosen to help a seemingly helpless girl. Chosen to be the only one to give her love. How could the cruel divinity which guided the universe possibly let him get away with that choice?

Logan slowly lowered his head so it was cradled by both hands. Soon the police would come to clean up this mess. The result of yet another of his priceless decisions.

--

Niki rode the elevator in silence, carrying her beloved leather jacket in her arms. It had endured gunshots, knife wounds, teeth, claws and probably a tryst or two. In her weary state she didn't want to put it back on for fear of shoving her arm out one of the tear holes and making things worse. She laughed. How could things possibly get worse?

She took a breath as the elevator doors opened. Well, for one, Addison could be awake and wondering why his bags were packed with her things. That would certainly make things worse. She wondered as she walked down the hall to her room if she had the stones to just knock him out once and for all. Massaging her shoulder, she realized she probably couldn't beat up a six year old.

She blinked. Her door was open. She was sure she had—

An officer saw her and called to the others. Soon she was surrounded by uniforms and her arms were being forced behind her back. She was shoved against the wall. Hands moved all over her body, patting her arms and legs and torso. Her jacket was snatched from her grip and she felt metal around her wrists.

_Niki Valtaine, you are under arrest for the murder of Megan Brandon. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney..._


	7. Actions and Consequences Part I

Actions and Consequences: Part I - Act 1

_Arraignment - December 3__rd__, 1987_

The judge squinted at the defense and then at the prosecution. All new faces today.

"Case number one seven six three — The State of New York versus Niki Valtaine: One count of murder in the first degree, one count of attempted murder."

Niki stood within the surreal haze of the past few days. It seems people were always talking about her, but never to her. Her attorney hadn't said three words to her after looking at her file.

"The State requests remand, Your Honor," Eric Quinlan looked very smart behind the bench of the prosecution, staring confidently ahead without even blinking.

"On what grounds?" the judge frowned and glanced back down at the case file.

"The defendant is unemployed, has no ties to the community and should be considered a flight risk, Your Honor." Quinlan didn't need to look over to see the defense counsel sag.

The judge waited for a moment before looking expectantly to the other bench. "Does the defense have anything to say?"

The young lawyer, even more recently acquired for legal aid than Eric Quinlan, and much less experienced, swallowed and glanced down at his notes. "Uh– Defense submits that the nature of the crime does not indicate the defendant would be a flight risk. As for her unemployment...her only income is from a foreign sponsor and she couldn't support herself even if she did flee. That sponsor has agreed to post bail upwards of fifty thousand dollars, Your Honor."

Addison sat in the front row, a deep furrow on his brow. Niki turned slowly and examined him, but he was not making eye contact with her.

The judge frowned, then after a moment shook his head. "I'm reading here that the charge of attempted murder involves the shooting of an F.B.I. agent." He glanced up with a cold look in his eyes. "No. Bail is denied. Bailiff..." The uniformed officers came and led Niki from the courtroom. "Next case—"

Addison snatched his coat from beside him on the bench and with a deep frown shuffled out of the courtroom.

--

The paper floated down onto Ms. Fischer's desk. She slowly lifted her eyes to see Mr. Kilpatrick. Black suit, black shirt and burgundy tie. Very unhappy. "Yes?"

"You promised me this case," he said rationally. "You said once I was finished with Wehx, I could have this case."

"I meant," she said calmly, returning her eyes to her report, "once you had acquitted Wehx, not once you had liquefied him with your car. You're on probation."

"If I don't get this case, then you can take your probation and shove it up your ass." He stood perfectly still, his tall dark form like an imposing pillar before her mahogany desk. She slowly drew in a breath.

"Don't forget who we are," she glanced up at him momentarily. "Don't forget what we can do."

"Never have," he raised one eyebrow. There was a long moment. "You kept me from jury selection," he said with bitterness. "You got my client remanded—"

"For her own protection," Tawnie muttered, quickly drawing her signature across the page. "And she's not your client unless I say she is."

Logan leaned forward, his hands on her desk, his eyes narrowing. "Don't forget who I am. What I can do."

She leaned back slightly, out of the heat of his glare. She looked at his intensity for several moments, testing his resolve. His determination was unquestionable. "Alright, she's yours." Before he could straighten up, she pulled a sheaf of typed legal paper from under the various papers. "But there's one condition."

Logan folded his hands and cocked his head. He wasn't altogether sure he liked the sounds of this. Tawnie had begun writing in details – dates and names on the legal paper. He recognized his own and that of his new client.

"Condition?"

Tawnie didn't reply for several minutes as she completed the impromptu contract. Finally she scratched her practiced signature over one of the blank lines and spun the page around to face the attorney.

"Wolfram and Hart will take over her case: she'll be lucky if she can recover from that incompetent..." Sigh. "You can represent her on one condition." She shrugged slightly. "You lose."

--

CIFW - 15-15 Hazel Street, East Elmhurst, N.Y., December 4th, 1987

Niki couldn't shake the haze of unreality as she carried her change of clothes into the small cell. Her handcuffs were removed and the door gave a little squeal before it closed with a dull clunk. There was another woman in the cell, laying on one of the bunks, ignoring her.

Niki sat down on the lower bunk and sagged back against the wall. She blinked rapidly, the events from her arrest back at the apartment up until now suddenly solidifying. It was really real. Really happening. The whimsical land of vampires and demons seemed so... irrelevant. Trial. Indictment. Incarceration. These words were her life now.

She slowly looked down at the plain white shirt and grey pants. At least her wardrobe didn't change much. Her beloved jacket had been confiscated and no doubt her apartment had been ransacked. Charges of... what? Murder?

Niki's eyes shifted quickly around as the reality sank it. Megan Brandon. That woman she had... the Deceivers had made her kill.

How had they found out? Harrison. He was awake. Jessica had told her that she would be betrayed. Harrison would – but he didn't know anything. He couldn't. There was nothing to trace her to his shooting. Was there?

She slowly closed her eyes and sank back against the wall behind the bunk. It was real. Somehow. It was all real.

Slayer. The word felt small and inadequate. Not an excuse the Supreme Court would accept. Obviously not something that Addison or the Council could fix. She lifted herself from the wall and stretched out on the bunk, letting sleep take her away.

--

Addison sat in his hotel room fuming, his fingers drumming uncharacteristically on the metal case he had brought. He had secured fifty six thousand dollars American to get Niki out on bail. Out of prison. Back here in private. He slid the briefcase off his lap and onto the bed.

The Council had seen this coming for weeks. Throughout the centuries, they had managed to make charges like these disappear, but ever since Potentials had begun being chosen in America, the collection of influential European elders had found itself without power. But obviously the darker powers had planned ahead. Addison now knew without a doubt that Wolfram and Hart were behind this. The cleverest scheme he had ever seen. And it could not be allowed to be fulfilled. As much as it pained him, Addison had to agree with the Council. Niki was like a daughter to him... but she was the Slayer first and foremost. The only Slayer.

"Your mini-fridge is criminally understocked."

Addison's head snapped around to see Whistler crouching on the far side of the room, peering into the small refrigerator unit. "What are you doing here?"

The demon looked up with a mask of innocence. "Who, me?"

The old Watcher stood, his briefcase clutched in a white knuckled fist. "What are you doing here?" he demanded again, fiercely.

Whistler shrugged and returned to his investigation of the mini-fridge. "Think what you like, you and the Council aren't the last word on authority when it comes to the well-being of the Slayer."

Addison pointed a rigid finger at the crouching demon. "You stay out of this," he hissed. "You're not permitted to get involved in human affairs."

"There's very little going on here in accord with the human order," the demon answered, squinting to see into the back of the small unit. Finally he let the door swing closed and he stood, tugging on his plum jacket to straighten it. "I suggest you back off – let these human games play out. Keep your nose clean."

Addison's frown deepened. "Don't you understand what's at stake here? The entire line of Slayers—"

"I understand perfectly," Whistler said with a sly shrug. "But you've miscalculated the Slayer's assets. She's got more going for her than you know. Have faith."

The Watcher's grip tightened on the metal briefcase. His glare narrowed at the demon in the jacket and fedora. "I'm sorry, Whistler. Faith is something I simply cannot afford. And faith in Niki has historically been a disaster."

Whistler raised one eyebrow in exasperation and he drew in a breath. "You'll regret it."

Addison's glare softened. "I know."

--

Actions and Consequences: Part I - Act 2

Trial - Part 1, December 6th, 1987

Recycled air. The highest quality recycled air. Somewhere a very expensive heating system was sucking the frigid December air into its heart, filtering it, heating it, filtering it again and blowing it into the courtroom. Logan inhaled deeply, his chest filling the black suit nicely.

"All rise." All rose. "The Honorable Judge Ortega presiding." The solid looking man entered cloaked in his long robes. He stepped up to the bench and sat down. At his beckon, those in the

court room sat. Judge Ortega reached into his robes and drew out a pair of bifocals. He slid them onto the bridge of his nose and looked down at the case file.

"Good morning, all. I see we have some new faces – enter your appearances please, starting with the counsel for the State."

Eric Quinlan stood, his chair screeching as he pushed it out behind him. "Good morning, Your Honor. Eric Quinlan, newly appointed assistant district attorney. Not appearing today are my co-counselors William Mason, Samuel Tythe and Richard Forster."

The judge nodded. "Thank you. Defense?"

As Eric sat down, Logan lifted his chair slightly off the floor so it would not screech. "Good morning, Your Honor."

Judge Ortega nodded. "Good morning."

"Counsel for the defense, Logan Kilpatrick of Wolfram and Hart, attorneys at law." Logan sat down.

The judge scribbled on his private note pad. "Thank you. We will hear the opening arguments."

Niki glanced past Logan to Quinlan who stood and stepped from behind his bench. He turned from the defense bench and faced the jury. Twelve random people. Twelve people to decide her fate.

"Good morning," Eric smiled at the jury. They said nothing. Eric's smile was undimmed. "It seems like we're saying 'good morning' a lot, doesn't it?" He turned on Niki, his eyes staring straight at her. "Niki Valtaine is more of a night person, though, isn't she?" He spoke to the twelve jurors behind him but kept his gaze for another moment on the Slayer, sitting with her hands folded next to Logan Kilpatrick who was calmly filling his lungs with recycled air.

"In the coming weeks, we will show that in the dark of night Niki Valtaine stalked the victim, a young woman named Megan, through the street at night — hid in an alley, waiting for her, then stabbed her through the heart with a sharpened piece of wood. Weeks later, the F.B.I. agent who was investigating this very murder, and who suspected Niki Valtaine of being guilty, followed her to an abandoned shop, where she shot him six times."

Niki swallowed, she shifted subconsciously in her seat.

"Six times. Now he's paralyzed from the waist down and has a metal plate in his head. You'll hear his testimony: all the evidence he'd collected up until then which implicated her. To protect herself, she had to shoot him." Eric reinforced his smiled. "But we won't let her get away with it." He made a respectful little nod. "So let's make it a good morning."

Logan's expression was totally passive. His hands were folded and he watched the judge as Quinlan strode confidently back to his bench. Once seated, the A.D.A. turned to glance at him, but Logan continued to ignore him.

"Does defense have an opening statement prepared?" the judge asked, raising an eyebrow at Logan's bench.

Logan stood. "The defense is prepared, Your Honor, but we ask that we be allowed to deliver a statement after the evidence is presented."

Ortega shrugged, removing his glasses. "Your decision." He lifted the gavel and let it fall with a soft bang. "Court is adjourned until this afternoon."

Niki turned and watched Logan's calm and collected gaze sweep around the room to her. He leaned in and spoke directly into her ear. "We need to talk."

--

Logan sat on the edge of the table, looking significantly less collected than he did in court. Niki sat in the cold metal chair, grateful not to be in cuffs.

"Okay," the lawyer in black said reasonably. "Let's pretend for a minute that I'm not your lawyer..." he looked at her and his professionalism dropped away. "Niki, what the hell!?"

The Slayer shrugged her shoulders. "What? I... kinda accidentally killed the girl. The Deceivers made me think I was stalking a vampire. They even made me think she dusted!"

Logan scratched his eyebrow absently with his pinkie finger as he concentrated on something else. "Uh huh. And the F.B.I. agent? You shot him six times?"

Niki held up a challenging hand. "No — that's a lie. I lured him to the building to finish the Goths and they shot him." She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know why they think I did it, except obviously Harrison thinks he can get me put away for that, since he can't actually prove I killed vampires."

"He knows about vampires?" Logan squinted unsure of where the Wolfram and Hart circle ended.

"No... I don't think so." She frowned and thought about it. "No, he just thinks I'm a serial killer who... Uh... incinerates her victims. He's got some quaint name for me, apparently been chasing the Slayer line for years."

Logan took a deep breath and stood. "Okay. We can work with that. The other witness they're calling is some guy..." Logan flipped through the file on the table. "Uh... Guy named Jesse Trent." He looked up and saw Niki's shocked expression. "Which... I'm guessing is a surprise to you."

"Jesse?" Niki slumped deeper into her seat. "What... why is he testifying?"

Logan's eyes shifted uncomfortably and finally settled on the page. "Um. Well, his deposition states that he discovered one of the key pieces of evidence... the blood-stained stake." His eyes lifted to meet hers. "Do you know where he might have found it?" The answer was staring at him from the file. He wanted to hear it from her.

Niki was breathing fast, her eyes flitting back and forth as she tried to recall where she might have left the incriminating piece of wood. She would never have left it out...? Would she? Be so stupid like that? She scoffed at herself: That question easily answered itself.

Logan swallowed. "He said you two were... intimately involved and you went out one morning and he found it in a drawer." The question remained unspoken. Were you intimately involved? "He didn't just break in, did he?"

Niki slowly shook her head. How could she have been so stupid! He will betray you. Her parents had warned her. She shouldn't have trusted Jesse to be alone in her apartment. She glanced up to her ex-lover. "I guess you're the one I trust now." Logan frowned. "So what do we do now?"

Logan cocked his head and stood from the table, pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. "Well, Eric —the prosecutor— he a good lawyer. He's going to vilify you and I bet he's going to succeed. I don't expect anybody on the jury to have a lot of sympathy for you... no offence."

Niki dismissed it. "Can't you just... you know..." she aimed her finger like a gun. "Pshew: Not Guilty?"

Logan was shaking his head. "No... See, my law firm has this thing about me using magic to affect the outcome of a trial. Big magical contracts supported by, like, a zillion shamans and witches. I can't touch the jury or the judge... or even Eric for that matter." He raised his eyebrows. "On the plus side, as my client you're also protected from magical interference."

Niki rolled her eyes. "Great."

--

Addison slowly pushed the needle through the membrane at the opening of the small vial of amanitin. As he drew the plunger back and filled the syringe with the clear yellow liquid, he considered, yet again, what he was doing. One poke with this and she'd have ten days. Terrible agony, then death. No treatment. Nothing the doctors could do. By the time she began to feel symptoms, he would be out of the country. That was how the Council wanted it. No international incident. Just one more death and it was done; the line was secure.

The old Watcher slid the plastic guard back over the needle, then set the syringe down on the night table. He carefully placed the empty vial of amanitin back in the metal briefcase and closed it.

The hotel room door exploded inward with such a force that the old man was thrown back onto the bed. Through the rubble of the entire doorway and surrounding wall, three large, fearsome looking demons strode in, their bodies bristling with tufts of fur and knobby horns. They hissed when they saw the Watcher and charged at him.

With the deadly efficiency of a former British military operative, Addison pulled the gun from beneath his pillow and shot two silenced bullets into the first demon's face. It dropped dead at his feet.

The second demon took a shot in the shoulder and roared, launching himself at the old man, getting as far as raking its claws across his face before taking another three bullets in the chest.

Addison could not prevent the gun from being knocked from his hand, however, by the swift paw of the third demon, which wrapped its fingers around his throat and began choking.

Addison clawed at the demon's face, digging his thumbs into the thing's beady eyes until it released him. Then with a sharp backhand, he sent it stumbling sideways where it collapsed into the night table. The Watcher went for his gun and the demon lifted the lamp, hurtling it at the old man who ducked just in time. With three muffled pops, the demon fell, leaving Addison holding the gun tightly in his right hand.

Panting and struggling to regain his composure, Addison straightened his waistcoat and stepped over the corpses of the demons. Sent by Fischer, no doubt. She obviously had a lot to learn about subtlety. He looked down with dismay at the remains of the night table and the shattered syringe letting its poisonous contents soak into the thick hotel carpet. Coniine it was, then.

--

Trial - Part 4, December 9th, 1987

Logan licked his lips. Harrison had been sworn in and was sitting at the witness stand in his wheelchair, Quinlan having made a spectacle of subtlety to have him wheeled up, establishing pathos with the jury. Logan certainly wasn't going to be popular discrediting him.

"Mr. Harrison, good morning." Eric strode from his bench, his tone renewed with courtesy and gentleness. The former F.B.I. agent nodded slightly in response. "Could you please tell the court what occurred the night of November the eighth?"

Harrison nodded and began his practiced testimony. Niki kept her eyes on him, seeing his eyes open for once and seeing the suppressed hate which resided there. His voice was thinner, no longer amused at anything. When he spoke he looked only at Quinlan, avoiding Niki completely.

"I was on a stake-out outside her apartment and when the sun went down, she left. That was usually her routine." Harrison blinked, his face expressionless but his eyes revealing everything to the Slayer listening. "She was on foot and I followed her at a distance in my car."

Quinlan nodded. "Can you tell us what happened once you reached the address of 122, 37th Avenue East?"

Harrison nodded wearily. "She descended the stairwell and after a few moments, I followed."

"You were armed?" Quinlan said it mostly as precaution, to get it out of the way so Logan couldn't exploit it.

Harrison nodded again. "Of course."

"Did you have your weapon drawn at that time?"

The former agent shook his head. "No. I followed her to a dark, abandoned room. She was ...waiting for me there." He glanced down as, no doubt, he had rehearsed. "The next thing I remember I woke up in the hospital and they told me I would never walk again."

"Prosecution enters as evidence Exhibit B—" Quinlan lifted the gun in the plastic bag and set it before Harrison. "This is the gun identified as having fired the bullets which crippled you that night, isn't that right?"

Harrison nodded. "That's it."

"This gun," Quinlan lifted it up and walked towards the jury to show them, "has Niki Valtaine's fingerprints on it." There was a subtle change in the mood of the jury as several of them looked to Niki sitting at the defense bench. She stared straight ahead, her jaw tight. Quinlan permitted himself a little smile. "No further questions, Your Honor."

The prosecuting attorney flashed Logan a challenging glance as he went to sit down. Logan wasn't paying attention. He took on a classically puzzled expression as he stood. He glanced down at his file as if it was troubling. Taking it with him, he approached the witness stand.

"Mr. Harrison," Logan said with a frown, "you said you were on a 'stake-out' outside of Niki's apartment."

Harrison nodded. "Yes." He said no more than necessary, as he had been instructed.

Logan's frown deepened. "So you were under orders— you were assigned to watch Niki by the F.B.I.?"

Harrison swallowed. "Not exactly."

Logan blinked very noticeably. "I'm sorry? Not exactly?" He flipped through a few pages very deliberately. "It says here that you were actually on sabbatical. So exactly what were you doing outside of Ms. Valtaine's apartment that night?"

Harrison clenched his jaw. "Niki Valtaine was a suspect in a classified F.B.I. case concerning a series of murders. I was spending some of my leave investigating her."

Logan nodded for a moment, then stopped. "A series of murders?" Harrison nodded. "How many? That is, how many victims was Ms. Valtaine suspected of killing the night you waited outside her apartment?"

Harrison was silent for a moment. "We're not sure."

Logan, who had already known the answer, cocked his head in surprise nonetheless. "You're not sure?"

"It could be as many as several dozen," the agent said defensively.

"But you're not sure," Logan replied. A statement, not a question. "Could you tell me the names, then, of some of the apparently numerous victims this serial killer has killed which led you to New York?"

Harrison's jaw was working in frustration. "No," he said quietly.

"Not one name?" Logan reapplied the puzzled look. "You're telling me you can't name one victim of this supposed serial killer?"

"The F.B.I. was never able to recover the bodies of the victims," Harrison defended hotly. "Most of the murders were reported to us by third parties—"

"Most," Logan held up a finger. "So you've seen some of these murders taking place yourself?"

Harrison nodded harshly. "Yes. I personally witnessed Niki Valtaine killing at least ten people."

Logan nodded in appreciation. "Well," he said as if impressed, "I'm sure their families will be glad to hear their murderer has been caught. Were you the one to tell them their loved ones were murdered?"

Harrison's jaw was clenching again. "No," he said bitterly.

Logan frowned. "Oh, why not? Since apparently no one else witnessed this terrible event."

"There was no way to identify who was murdered — as I said there were no bodies to examine." Harrison was defensive as if he sensed where this was going. He was fairly sure the sympathy the jury had for him was evaporating as his anger grew.

"No bodies?" Logan said with a frown. "Where did they go?"

"She incinerated them," Harrison said with clenched teeth.

Logan nodded, as if in understanding. "Oh, I see. She... killed them, then... what? Dragged more than ten people, on foot, to a furnace and incinerated them?" He shrugged. "Or did she just pile them up in the middle of the street and doused them with gasoline?" His tone had what he judged to be the right about of cynicism.

Harrison was smoldering, his eyes burning hot coals. "No," he said hotly. "She had a sword. When she cut off their heads, they were instantly incinerated."

Logan smiled a pitying smile. He didn't need to say anything. It was clear Harrison's credibility was shot. After a long moment, Logan turned another page in his file. "You were shot in the head, correct?"

Eric Quinlan shot out of his seat. "Objection, Your Honor! Relevance?"

Judge Ortega rolled his eyes and looked from Logan to Harrison. "Overruled. I think we can all see the relevance Mr. Quinlan." He turned to Logan who was innocently reading the report. "But get on with it Mr. Kilpatrick — you've made your point."

Logan nodded. "One more thing." He walked to his bench and lifted the gun in the plastic bag and brought it to the witness stand. "Did you see Niki Valtaine carrying this the night of November eighth?"

Harrison shook his head sullenly. "No."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Are Niki Valtaine's fingerprints the only fingerprints on this weapon?"

Harrison shrugged. "I don't know."

Logan again took on a pitying expression. "For the record: the answer is No."

Quinlan scribbled some notes down and looked up to see Logan flashing him a knowing look. Eric kept his cool. This might be more difficult than he had thought.

"No further questions," Logan said as he sat down. The witness was excused and he was wheeled bitterly from the witness stand. He threw a hateful glare towards the defense table as he passed but both Niki and Logan avoided looking at him. Logan leaned over and whispered into the Slayer's ear, the euphoria of triumph still present. "See: piece of cake."

--

Actions and Consequences: Part I - Act 3

CIFW - 15-15 Hazel Street, East Elmhurst, N.Y., December 11th, 1987

Niki sat up in her bunk in her cell. Some sort of hazy yellowness had filled the small space. She looked around with the confusion which always preceded the realization that this was a vision. But the visions of late all told her one thing.

She started when a hand touched her shoulder. Turning she saw her mother and father lying on her bunk which was suddenly large enough to accommodate them all. Her father had his arms wrapped around her mother and they were looking at each other very fondly.

Niki felt a pang of sadness. Then the queasy feeling overrode it as her parents' expressions became blank and they both turned to face her.

"He will betray us," they said in unison.

Niki's eyes opened and she found herself staring at the wall. She frowned with fatigue, rolling onto her back. She wasn't used to a bed this small. Or to being around so many other women. Or to seeing Logan so often.

She groaned as she sat up, touching a tender spot on her forehead. She must have rolled into the wall while she was sleeping. What was with the vision? He will betray us? Yeah... thanks for the heads up! He already did betray us. Whichever he it was: either Jesse or Harrison, though Jesse's betrayal cut a bit deeper seeing as how she never slept with Harrison and never tried to have Jesse killed. She groaned and rubbed her head. It was all so weird. The only normal thing about the situation was Logan. He was the rock she could count on — the person Jessica had said she should trust. Well... she was trusting him.

--

Rachel sat patiently, waiting for her husband to explain. He had called her to the table and had met her curious gaze with something which could only lead to trouble.

He took a measured breath. He wasn't afraid to tell her. He was a big boy. "My new client is Niki Valtaine." He waited patiently for her to respond, expecting shock, anger, something. Instead she frowned a little.

"...So?" She raised an eyebrow. "Who's Niki Valtaine?"

He lowered his gaze. Hadn't expected that. He swallowed, hoping the silence would explain. Obviously not. Finally he looked up again to her confused frown. He took a deeper breath this time. "You remember when I slept on the couch...?"

Slowly the confusion lifted and coldness replaced it. Her eyes narrowed. Her anger towards him for having cheated on her had begun to fade, but now it was dredged up anew. "You're seeing that... that woman again?"

Logan was shaking his head. "I'm not seeing her." He bit his lip. "I do remember what you said. I was just assigned the case and I couldn't refuse it— I wanted to tell you as soon as possible."

"What did she do?" Rachel inquired, subconsciously crossing her arms and leaning away from the table.

"I can't really go into–" then he met her glaring eyes. "Murder one and attempted murder," he said quickly. There was always marital privilege which covered for his breach of client privilege. Besides, Niki would understand, and never ever meet Rachel, so it was fine.

Rachel sighed deeply and shrugged. "I don't see why I should be happy you're telling me this. I would be satisfied if you lost the case."

"You're not the only one," Logan muttered.

"So... what? Now I know for sure that even when you are working late you're out seeing her. Am I supposed to thank you for bringing this to me? Do you expect me to trust you now?"

Logan swallowed. That hurt. "That's not all I had to tell you," he said, sitting slightly taller across from her. "I have the resources of my firm to work with. Even though I'm working the case by myself, I don't ever actually have to see her outside of the courtroom. I can arrange for an assistant to conduct the interviews and do the prep work with her, if that will give you some peace of mind."

Rachel was slow to respond. "Well it wouldn't hurt," she said at last. Her expression softened. "Look, it's not that I don't trust you..." then she found a new reserve of resentment. "You know, it is actually that I don't trust you. I'm sorry —this says a lot about me, I know— but I would feel better if you didn't see her." Her expression was clouded but no longer precisely on his account.

After a long moment, Logan nodded and took a deep breath as he stood. "Okay, I'll have that all arranged by tomorrow. I'm glad that's out in the open." Wrong thing to say, he winced.

Rachel was nodding, very slightly, in bitterness again. "I'll bet you are," she said under her breath. As long as you're feeling better. As he walked quietly from the kitchen she suddenly stood from the chair, her troubled expression gone. "Logan—"

He turned around. "What?" he said with concern.

"Why?" she asked in earnest.

Logan blinked and considered it. "Why did I take the case...?"

She shook her head once, sharply. Her words were sharp and clear as crystals. "Why did you have sex with Niki Valtaine?" Her eyes were angry and worried at the same time.

Logan dropped his gaze and shook his head bitterly. "Because I'm a fucking idiot. A child... and an idiot." He looked back up and met her gaze.

"Don't give me the bullshit answer," she said quietly. "Tell me why. Why her?"

Logan worked his jaw and brought a hand up to scratch his eyebrow with his pinkie finger as he always did. He blinked, staring at the linoleum floor for a long time. Finally he looked up again at his waiting wife.

"Part of her reminded me of who you used to be." He held her gaze, letting her examine him for deceit. She would find none. "She was vulnerable. She... needed me."

Rachel shrugged her shoulders. "What changed in me?"

Logan frowned and shook his head helplessly. Don't be like that. "No, it's not—" he scoffed at the cliché. He shook his head with bitter self-loathing. "I slept with another woman because I'm a fucking idiot. I hope it's me who's changed." He turned and stepped from the kitchen. "I'll go arrange that thing now."

Rachel swallowed and sat back down. "For what it's worth," she called out after him, partly hoping he wouldn't hear, "I hope you win."

--

Niki frowned with dismay. "You don't understand — I need to talk to Logan."

Aaron shrugged helplessly. "All I know is what Mr. Kilpatrick tells me. He said he wasn't going to be able to meet with you out of session any more. Anything you have to say to him you're going to have to say through me."

Aaron Shields was a slight young man, looking like he was fresh out of grad school. He barely knew his way around a clipboard, let alone a courtroom. That was why Wolfram and Hart had assigned him to assist Logan: to ensure the job was done to the letter of the rule book, but as inefficiently and clumsily as possible.

With Aaron had come three large men who, if they hadn't been stuffed into uniforms, would have looked much more at home in a pro wrestling match. Niki could tell they weren't vampires, just goons, and by the looks of Aaron Shields... well, the only thing that made sense was that someone didn't want her to get physical with him.

Niki groaned. What did Logan expect she was going to say to this kid? I've been having visions about betrayal: I think someone else is going to turn on me. Hardly. Then a thought occurred to her which hadn't all the time she had been here. What if it was Logan himself?

She had dumped Logan, after all. She had thought they were over that —it was years ago now— but maybe... Maybe he had changed. Why was he taking her case? He wasn't the best at his firm; he was new. If he wanted her to get acquitted, why didn't he pass her case on to the most senior, most competent lawyer of this firm of his? He was a small claims lawyer as far as she was concerned...

The Slayer shook her head. No, you're just being paranoid, she told herself. He's doing fine. He's going to win. If he isn't coming to see me, it's because he can't, not because he doesn't want to. Better just sit on this betrayal thing for now.

"Fine," she said, hanging on to her annoyance at the peon sitting before her. "If I can't talk to Logan directly, I want to go back to my cell."

Immediately, the three goons stepped forward. Aaron tensed but they advanced no further than the table. Aaron looked at the three large men as if suddenly realizing they existed. Finally he stood, knocking on the door behind him. The door unlocked and a guard in uniform stepped in.

"She wants to go back to her cell," he said pointing at Niki but eyeing the muscle.

The guard shook his head, lifting a piece of paper from the inside of his uniform's breast pocket. "W.P.," he said challengingly. "She goes in solitary. Court order."

"W.P.?" The Aaron snatched the paper from the burly guard. "What the heck is W.P.?"

"Witness Protection," the man said resentfully, snatching the order back. "The judge agrees that she's in danger in the prison population – she's a key witness in a case they're building."

"What?" Niki stood, her gaze moving quickly from the guard to the young man. "What case— A case against whom?"

"That's privileged information," the guard assured her with a trace of contempt. The three goons stepped forward to surround the Slayer. "It's safer if you know as little as possible."

Three pairs of rough hands shuffled the Slayer from the small room towards solitary confinement. The safest place for a prisoner in the entire prison.

--

Logan set the phone down, his gaze narrowing. Fischer. He stormed into Tawnie Fischer's outer office, marching straight past the protesting secretary and into the inner sanctum. Someone was sitting across from her, but he didn't care.

"What's this I hear about you sticking my client in Witness Protection?" he demanded, slamming his hands down on her desk.

Patiently, she closed the file for the man sitting across from her. "Would you excuse me a moment, Michael?"

The man in the white shirt and blue tie nodded in understanding. Tawnie stood and walked stiffly to the other end of the room. Logan followed.

"Logan," she said through a tight smile. "What are you doing in my office during a meeting?"

"You got a court order placing my client in solitary confinement?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough that the man in the silk shirt couldn't hear the words, but could catch the anger.

"For her own protection," Tawnie said calmly, trying not to sound as angry at the intrusion as Logan did at her presumption. "What's the difference, you're not seeing her anymore anyway. She's a witness in a case—"

"A case against whom?" Logan snapped back.

"Maybe if you started showing a little respect for this firm, you might find yourself in the know more often," she offered, raising an eyebrow. Her smile disappeared in an instant and she lifted an accusing finger. "And don't forget your goal here. You're going to lose this case. Niki Valtaine is going to spend the rest of her life in prison—"

"What is so damn fascinating about this case!?" Logan exploded, no longer concerned with the volume of his voice. "I already know you manipulated the prosecution to get the death penalty off the table— now you've got the judge to stick her in protective custody— What's your obsession with her?"

Tawnie dropped her gaze, as if embarrassed for him. "Logan." She patted him gently on the shoulder. "Logan, my bosses would like nothing more right now than to have the one and only Vampire Slayer locked away for the rest of her natural life." She smiled at his ghost-white face. "And the natural life-span of a Slayer? Who knows... Another eighty, ninety years even. That's eighty or ninety years without a Slayer to pick off our clients or attack our employees." She took him by the shoulder and turned him towards her desk, leading him to the mess of paper there.

Michael was sitting patiently, ignoring the exchange, pretending he was alone in the room. Logan had not the slightest interest in him. Instead, Logan was looking down at a sheet of paper Tawnie was unfolding.

"This," she said, as if speaking to a child, "is what's going to keep Niki alive until she can be indicted." Logan took the document and Tawnie read it for him just to assuage his disbelief. "It's an arrest warrant for Richard J. Addison."

--

Actions and Consequences: Part 1 - Act 4

"What the hell is the charge?" Logan frowned at the arrest warrant, trying to think of anything Addison had done which was actually criminal. As far as the lawyer knew, he was just monumentally useless and occasionally degrading and annoying.

"Some random charges we pulled out of a hat," Tawnie shrugged. "Mob connections, money laundering, drug smuggling — whatever was needed to get the judge to agree. We're not above making 'mistakes' to serve our ends..."

"Mistakes like 'Oops, I thought this was real evidence. Oh well.' Those kinds of mistakes? Good to know," Logan said suspiciously.

"Not for an actual trial," Fischer dismissed with irritation. "We'll have Addison killed as soon as we take him into custody—"

"What is going on!?" Logan threw the warrant onto her desk. Michael, who was sitting patiently, pretending not to hear, glanced at the document with distant interest. But Logan was busy shouting at Fischer. "Why do you care about the Watcher?"

"We care about the Slayer," Fischer argued. "We care that she gets through this trial alive: to remain alive for a very long time. Obviously there are those —like yourself— who are interested in keeping that from happening." She took his arm and led him away from the desk again to stand near a floor to ceiling bookshelf.

"Listen, Logan," she said gently, as if all of a sudden privacy was again an issue. "I know you and Niki were involved. I know you don't want her to go to prison, but I also know you don't want her killed."

"Are you threatening her?" Logan frowned, pulling his shoulder from Tawnie's grasp.

She squinted at his ignorance and scowled. "Of course not!" She shook her head. "You don't get it, do you? We're powerful. If you weren't so deep in this organization to begin with, I'm sure you'd be quick to toss around the word evil. It is in our best interests to see the Slayer contained: removed from the world where she can do no damage to us. Sending her to jail does that for us. If we just killed her another Slayer would pop right up — like goddamn whack-a-mole. It's not the Slayer we're concerned with, it's the Slayer line. If we can get Niki indicted, the first time this has ever happened in the history of the Slayer, we'll have put the Slayer line on hold — in stasis. Do you understand how much more powerful we'll become in her absence?"

"So what does Addison have to do with all this?" Logan asked, feeling a nervous tension building in his gut. If she was telling him this, it was because she was confident of success.

"The entire point of the Council of Watchers is to safeguard the line of Slayers. It's their duty to make sure there's always a Slayer out there doing her job." Fischer slowly drew out a random book from the shelf and opened it to its inside cover, examining it as she spoke. "But just like us, they don't give a crap about the actual Slayer — only the line matters."

Logan was gazing into the distance. "They won't allow her to be incarcerated." He locked eyes with her again. "They'd kill her first, wouldn't they?"

Tawnie nodded as if congratulating a child. "Well done," she said sarcastically. "We've tried to kill Addison, but he's going to stop at nothing to keep Niki from prison." She closed the volume and placed it back on the shelf. "So we'll do what we do best. Use the system—"

"He wouldn't kill her if he did think I was going to lose the case," Logan said distantly. This caught Tawnie's attention and she grabbed him roughly by the arm again.

"You are going to lose," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "You may have fucked her years ago, but don't forget who you're fucking with now. You are solidly in bed with us now. And you're not the only one we can hurt—"

"I know" Logan frowned, pulling his arm away again and smoothing the creases there. "You don't have to remind me: hostages to fortune... I get it."

"I hope so," Fischer forced a smile onto her face as she turned and started back towards her desk. "We'll be watching this case, Logan, and we'll be watching you." She sat down across from the man in the white shirt and the blue tie. "Now, where were we?"

Logan left her office and marched straight to his own, lifting the receiver of his phone and dialing the number. After five rings, he stabbed the hook switch and disconnected. After the dial tone began again, he punched in the number for the Correctional Institute for Women on Riker's Island.

"Aaron Shields," he said after the woman on the other end was done speaking. There was a pause as she checked something and informed him of the results. "Then find him!"

--

Niki sat very quietly on the metal chair at the metal table in the small room. She was glad to be out of solitary and would just let Aaron talk.

He had a list of things to talk about, skipping through them uncertainly since most of them were odd and didn't seem to have anything to do with the case. The more the young man read Mr. Kilpatrick's notes, the more he began to suspect there was more going on between the two of them than a lawyer client professional relationship should allow.

He glanced up at Niki who was sitting very quietly in her chair. She was attractive enough, he decided. Most of the women here looked a lot alike in their white shirts and grey pants. They were usually a lot more sullen and unhappy to see him than he would like, but such is life. He returned his gaze to the notebook.

"He says here that the next court session is two days from now — uh, I guess he means tomorrow, since this was written yesterday — what's today, the sixteenth?" She met his gaze with a blank stare. "...And the prosecution will be calling their star witness..." he flipped the page and frowned. "It... it doesn't say here who that is. I guess he knows." He looked up to her again, lowering the page. "I'm sure he's ready. He's a really great guy — one of the best lawyers I've worked with."

Niki met his gaze and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "How many lawyers have you worked with?"

Aaron suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "Uh, a few — He says here that he thinks the prosecution is going to try and work in an expert witness to follow up their star witness. He's got the name of someone... a medical examiner. Probably the one who did the autopsy on the Megan Brandon woman. He's got an expert of his own—" Aaron frowned. "Uh... a cultural expert, it looks like. Weird." He immediately glanced up, fearfully. "Uh, I mean, I'm sure Mr. Kilpatrick knows what he's doing. He's a really great guy—"

Niki looked down at the handcuffs which were hanging from her wrists. Solitary confinement was bad, but if this guy went on for much longer, she was going to have to—

The door opened and a guard came in, looking annoyed to have been drafted as the messenger boy. "There's a call for you at the front desk," he said to Shields, taking a deep breath. "And the man outside is getting really anxious to see her—" he indicated Niki who perked up with interest.

Aaron nodded. "Okay, I'll take the call. Who's it from, by the way?" The guard shrugged as they left the small meeting room.

Niki looked up at the three goons who were her protective detail assigned to protect her from something they wouldn't disclose. She had questioned them constantly when she had first been placed in solitary but had begun to think even they didn't know why she needed protecting. They were staring blanking at the rear wall as they stood like big cuts of beef by the door.

Then the door opened. Niki's eyes widened with delight. "Addison!" she stood and raised her hands, which she suddenly realized were still cuffed.

"It's all right," he said, gesturing with an open hand, "don't get up on my account." He stopped just short of sitting down, seeing the three goons who were standing guard. "Do you think we could have a moment, please?"

The head goon gave his two subordinates a skeptical glance, then shrugged his shoulders and moved towards the door. "Two minutes," he said gruffly. "We'll just be outside."

Niki nodded her appreciation and sat back down as Addison found his seat. "It's good to see you," Niki said warmly, looking forward to at the very least a lecture. She hadn't been alone with him since this had all started and if anything deserved a lecture, then being on trial for murder certainly did. She could only imagine the squirming going on among the Council. This brought a smile to her face.

"Niki," Addison began, folding his hands on the table. "I have a confession to make." The smile slowly fell from the Slayer's face. Addison looked at her solemnly for a long moment. "I was going to bake you a pie with a file in it." He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a long glass syringe. "But then I realized, I can't bake."

There was silence for a long time as Niki's eyes slowly moved from the syringe of fluid to its holder. With a very slow, disarming motion, Addison slipped the cover from the needle's length, lifting it up to examine it in the light of the single barred window.

Very carefully, he tapped the bubbles from the end and depressed the plunger slightly, letting a small jet of fluid squirt out onto the table.

"What are you doing?" Niki said in a hoarse whisper.

Addison stood from his seat and held a hand out, as if he wanted her to feel at ease. "It's okay, Knicks—"

She jumped out of her seat and backed away from Addison and the table. Her cuffed hands were raised in front of her as her father figure advanced on her. "Addison, what are you doing?" she repeated, her muscles coiling, getting ready for a fight she had never imagined would happen.

The old Watcher slowly came around the table, the needle held back, out of her reach, but ready to strike out like a snake if the opportunity arose. His other hand was outstretched, as if he were offering to help her from the edge of the cliff. The sight made her sick. She backed as far from the advancing menace as she could, closing her fists as tight as she could.

In one quiet instant, she closed her eyes and pulled her wrists apart, feeling the burning pain of the cuffs digging in but also feeling the chain between them give. Her eyes snapped open and she assumed a defensive crouch. "Don't come any closer," she advised, the feeling of betrayal replaced by growing anger. Of all the people in whom she had trusted... "Don't you dare take another step, you son of a bitch—"

"Knicks," he said gently, slowly inching forward, as if herding a dangerous animal into a cage.

"Don't call me that, you fuck," she spat back, smacking his outstretched hand away from her. He paused for an instant, then continued forward. Bit by bit, Niki was backing away. She didn't know what the hell was in the syringe, but this was beyond any doubt the betrayal her parents had warned her of. Her blindness to it made her all the more angry.

"Niki," he said a little more sternly. "This is for the best. You hold the power of the Slayer. If you go to prison, that power is locked away with you. We can't afford to let that happen."

Niki's eyes were now fixed solidly on the advancing syringe. "So you're going to bust me out of here?"

Addison shook his head once. "We can't do that. You're in too deep. This is the only way. I'm sorry."

Niki's face twisted in disgust. "You're sorry?" She demanded, straightening a little. "You're not fucking sorry—" her eyes widened as she realized how much money he had offered to get her out on bail. "You've been planning this since the beginning!" She glanced around the room as if the answer had been there the whole time, staring her in the face. She turned back to him with a new look of betrayal in her eyes. "How long?"

Addison was still approaching, much more cautiously as her anger grew. "That meeting in England," he said matter-of-factly. "They had become aware that you were being investigated and that charges were imminent."

Niki glared with cold hatred. "So instead of attacking the system you attack me? One of your own?"

Addison made a little shrug. "You were the weakest link. The Council has unfortunately had to do this on more than one occasion," he admitted. "For the good of the line."

"For the good of the fucking line," she repeated with contempt. Just then the door opened and Addison's eyes flitted for an instant away from the Slayer. Niki gritted her teeth and lunged...


	8. Actions and Consequences Part II

Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 1

Niki's hand closed around the Watcher's throat and she threw him across the room. He struck the concrete wall and his hands fell to his sides as he slid to the floor. The now empty syringe shattered on the floor. The old man crumpled into a heap but that didn't satisfy the Slayer.

She slowly looked from his body to her left hand. Slowly spreading her fingers she saw the tiny red dot from where the needle had punctured her skin. She closed her fist and stepped forward, her toes tingling. She sank to her knees when she got to him and rolled him to face her. He was groaning.

"It was that easy for you?" She felt her feet going numb, wondering what he had given her. When he didn't respond, she gripped his face, her thumbs under his jaw where she knew it would be most painful. "Did you ever... ever give a shit?"

The prospect of his answer terrified her. Her personal claim to fame was her emotional detachment. She had screwed Logan and had made him love her. But she felt nothing for him. She had killed Pierce without a second thought. As she looked down at the bleary eyed old man in her hands right now, her safety was his job — now... she swayed dizzily, frowning as a sudden nausea churned in her gut.

"Answer," she said tiredly. She shook his head and it flopped back down to his chest. She had given him quite a knock. He'd be out for a while. She didn't have a while. She'd get him to talk... one way or another.

She stood, unsteadily, as the door burst open and Shields charged in, his gun drawn. The three goons charged in after him, looking from the unsteady Slayer to the unconscious visitor. There was a long moment of uncertainty, when finally Aaron Shields pointed to Addison on the floor.

"Arrest him... Uh, take him to the infirmary – then arrest him." The young man stepped toward Niki and extended a hand, trying to steady her. "Maybe you should sit down."

Each breath was becoming more difficult and red spots were beginning to appear at the edges of her vision. She blinked, her eyelids heavy, trying to form words on lips which didn't want to respond. She wanted to raise her hand, take the back of the chair to steady herself, but her hands wouldn't do what she told them.

As soon as Shields touched her shoulder in concern, she toppled over backwards, landing flat on her back, the world spinning out of control.

--

Logan dropped the phone on the desk with a clatter, racing out of his office. His heart was pounding: Addison was at the prison. Addison was with Niki. His finger stabbed the elevator call button repeatedly, harder each time. It lit up, but the elevator doors didn't open. He stabbed the button several more times then slammed his fist into the closed doors.

"It looks like you're in a hurry," a friendly voice said from beside him. Logan didn't answer, not wanting to have to knock anyone out right now. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you've got an instantaneous mode of transportation at your disposal, don't you?"

Logan's head snapped around, his gaze fixing on the owner of the voice. He recognized the man in the black pants, the white silk shirt and the blue silk tie. "How would you know that?" Logan demanded harshly, in no mood for games.

"Maybe you didn't hear," he said with a broad but gentle smile. "I'm Michael."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Logan frowned, glancing back towards the elevator as the doors slid open.

"Let's go somewhere," Michael said pleasantly. His hand shot out in a flash and touched Logan's elbow. Instantly, the two of them were gone with the sound of great beating wings.

--

There are many opinions concerning the moment of death. Is there a light and a tunnel? Is there a beautiful city, welcoming arms of loved ones, comforting words? Or is there nothing, just a vast expanse of yawning blackness that eats away time and perception.

Niki's eyes were wide open when she felt her heart beat one final, uncertain beat. Her lips were blue from the minutes she had been unable to breath. Her muscles were paralyzed and even the voices were becoming unmatched to the faces. Were they faces? Or was it just a quiet void?

"Clear," the paramedic called out, the paddles surging seven hundred volts through the Slayer's chest. Then the Ambu bag went over her mouth and nose and forced air into her lungs. Fingers pressed her jugular artery to feel for a pulse.

"Nothing," he lifted the paddles again. "Clea–"

The paramedics froze, their gazes locked in one place as Logan and Michael appeared among them with the quiet sound of ruffled feathers. Logan looked down at Niki's motionless body for a moment before noticing the similar motionlessness of the paramedics.

"What's going on?" he asked quietly. There was no need to be loud. There was no noise whatsoever.

"You're here to save her, aren't you?" Michael asked, squatting down by Niki's lifeless body.

Logan dropped instantly to his knees and took Niki's shoulder. "How do I save her? What do I do?" He looked over to the frozen paramedic and his frozen paddles.

"Those won't do anything," Michael advised. "She's been poisoned."

Logan slowly turned his head around to the frozen guards and the frozen Addison they were putting in handcuffs. He tried to get his breathing under control. "I– I don't know what—" He looked to the man in the white silk shirt helplessly. "I don't do that kind of magic. I need something to kill!"

Michael cocked his head. "You can't kill a neurotoxin." His eyes were fixed on Niki, as if Logan were just along to watch.

Logan stood, backing quickly away from the scene on the floor. His mind was racing. He didn't know what to do with his hands. This was a nightmare. "She– she's a Slayer, won't she heal? She heals fast – won't she heal?"

"You can't heal death," Michael slowly leaned in closer to her ashen face. "I wonder what she sees."

"What the fuck are we doing here?" Logan demanded unable to look at the frozen scene of death anymore. One look at the Watcher made him set his jaw and bear it, though.

"You can't heal death," Michael repeated quietly. "But I can." He drew his hand gently down Niki's cheek and then stood, backing away to the far corner of the small room.

In an instant that made Logan nearly jump out of his skin, action resumed and the voices and bustle of the paramedics and officers was like an assault.

"Clear," the paramedic ordered, the mask jerking off of Niki's face. Seven hundred volts surged through her heart and this time it spasmed, contracting powerfully as her augmented metabolism stirred back to life.

"We've got a pulse," the other paramedic called out, his fingers on her neck. Niki drew in a deep breath, her eyes having never closed the entire time. She promptly sat up just as Addison was being shuffled out the door.

"Tell me," she croaked, her last thought surfacing again. "Tell me it was easy."

Addison, lifting his eyelids, struggled momentarily in the grip of the goons in uniform. They paused and he took in a breath to answer. "You've always made my job harder than it needed to be," he said, wrestling for consciousness and winning. "This is no different."

Logan backed away towards Michael and Niki's head turned towards him. "Hey," she managed. "What's this bullshit I hear about you not seeing me?"

The paramedics were helping her into a chair and some were cleaning up the equipment. The guards escorted Addison from the room, one of them remaining to clean up the broken syringe.

Logan didn't answer her, but instead turned to Michael. "Thank you," he said sincerely. He had never felt so powerless. Never so indebted.

"Nobody ever thanks me," Michael replied, the smile creeping into his eyes. "Not at a place like Wolfram and Hart."

"Why do you work there?" Logan asked with a frown, not sensing the scheming evil which seemed to permeate the law firm he worked for.

"I never said I worked there," the man shrugged. "I like to volunteer. Some jobs are more rewarding than others." He turned towards the door and Logan began to follow him, ignoring the confused glare coming from the Slayer. "Out in the world," Michael continued, "I do real work. I'm at the ICU – I'm also grief counselor."

"Kinda morbid, aren't ya?" Logan frowned, following the man in the white silk shirt into the hallway. "Do you do that trick–" he indicated where they had just come from "on people in the ICU?"

"I'm working at Wolfram and Hart as your liaison to the liaison — Tawnie. Apparently she's seen enough of you as she cares to. Anything you want to bring to her, you bring to me instead." Michael continued walking down the corridor until he got to a barred door.

"Then could you tell her something for me?" Logan said, still a little puzzled by the whole experience.

Michael nodded. "Shoot."

"Tell her I want more security on Niki — constant security." The lawyer glanced over his shoulder in the direction the guards had taken the Watcher. "And I want Addison denied bail."

"I'll pass it along," the man agreed.

"One more thing," Logan held up a hand, knowing there was no real way to stop Michael from leaving. The man in the white silk shirt raised an eyebrow. Logan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Who are you, exactly?"

Michael let the sad little smile resurface. "I'll be seeing you," he said with a small nod. To Logan's bewilderment, the man was gone again with the same sound of a rush of air.

Logan tried to read the last few minutes in front of him like they were written on some cosmic script. Some things were solved. Some things were not. Addison and the Council were against him. No — they were against Niki going to jail for life. They were against Wolfram and Hart.

Suddenly a thought crystallized that he had never really considered before. There was a solution here, something staring him in the face from the cosmic script. Logan's eyes narrowed at its utter simplicity. I just won't lose.

--

Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 2

Trial - Part 11, December 23rd, 1987

"Please state your name and field of expertise again for the record."

The man leaned forward slightly to speak into the microphone. "Doctor Darren Phillips, cultural analyst and professor of subcultural studies."

"Thank you for coming today, Dr. Phillips." Logan set the loose leaf pages down and crossed the distance from the defense bench to the witness stand.

"My pleasure," the man said again into the microphone. It made a little popping sound at the p of pleasure.

"Please, Dr. Phillips, could you tell the court your particular area of expertise?" Logan turned on his heel to face the jury as the expert witness responded. Niki was sitting at the bench behind Logan's back. He hadn't said four words to her since she had been given a clean bill of health from the prison infirmary. If he had looked, he would have found her staring blankly at the table top.

"Well," Phillips sat up a little straighter, "my particular field of expertise is the rise of the neo-gothic subculture in America and Western Europe—"

"Objection!" Eric Quinlan rose from his position beside his co-counsels with a frown. "Prosecution would like to know the relevance of any of this!"

Judge Ortega raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Kilpatrick, I hope you're not wasting the court's time." His tone was tired and edged with impatience.

Logan took a deep breath. "Defense would like to take this opportunity to present its opening argument."

Quinlan scoffed but bit his tongue and Judge Ortega shrugged deeply. "Better late than never. The court will hear the defense's opening argument."

Logan turned back, headed for his notes, having been given his opportune moment. Then his eyes caught the tired and defeated face of his client. He stood staring at her for several seconds during which both the judge and the prosecution grew more impatient. Logan slowly titled his head. He had eaten take-out at his desk last night. A little smile crept to the corner of his mouth.

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was home, going home... Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me...

"Mr. Kilpatrick?" Ortega sounded even more tired and impatient, even though mere seconds had gone by.

"Yes, Your Honor," Logan turned sharply with a smile. "The court would like to hear why precisely Niki Valtaine did not kill Megan Brandon and did not shoot Brian Harrison. And I will tell the court precisely this."

Ortega scowled slightly in suspicion of the sudden change in attitude. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Kilpatrick," he said dryly, "Please proceed."

Logan bowed slightly, retaining the small smile. "It is the prosecution's contention that this entire ordeal began with the murder of Megan Brandon." He turned and swiped the evidence bag from the defense's bench. "With this stake," he held up the wood in the plastic bag for the jury to see, "my client is alleged to have stabbed Ms. Brandon in the chest." He brought the tip of the stake to his own chest for emphasis. Carefully he put the evidence bag back down and turned on the prosecution.

"Now, we would all like to do some fancy DNA tests and find whose blood is in fact on the end of that stake, but as the court well knows," he gazed firmly at Quinlan, "and as the jury has no doubt been made aware, DNA tests are not admissible in an American court of law."

There was a spark of triumph in Logan's eye as Quinlan's jaw tightened and his fist slowly closed on the page before him, crumpling its edge. Preemptive strike. Logan turned quickly back to the jury.

"In reality, there is no way to know whose blood is on the end of that piece of wood." He eyed each one of them at random, glancing from gaze to gaze. "All the prosecution can tell you with any certainty, is that it's human blood. Someone's blood. Potentially anyone's blood." Logan cocked his head with a look of practiced disappointment. "And according to the prosecution, that makes Niki Valtaine, an otherwise law abiding New Yorker, Ms. Brandon's murderer." His look of scorn for that idea was plain and, he hoped, effective.

"The truth is, no one saw who murdered Ms. Brandon. Just like no one saw who shot Mr. Harrison." Logan turned and his sweeping gaze passed over Brian Harrison who was sitting at the back of the court room in his wheelchair, his smoldering glare following the lawyer's every move. "Not even Mr. Harrison himself. He admits he didn't see her carrying a gun — he couldn't even confirm if she owned one, and he'd been stalking her for weeks!"

Logan strutted back towards the witness stand and the abandoned Dr. Phillips. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to call your attention now back to our expert witness so that you can see for yourselves a very different Niki Valtaine than the murderer painted by the prosecution."

Logan turned now to the judge. "Defense would like to recommence cross-examination."

Ortega shifted his weight and looked down at Dr. Phillips. "The witness is reminded that he is still under oath." Phillips nodded.

Logan nodded smartly, tugging on the hem of his black suit coat. "Dr. Phillips, since you were so rudely interrupted before, could you please repeat to the court your particular area of expertise?"

Phillips nodded again, eyeing the prosecution nervously. "I study the gothic subculture."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "And by gothic, I doubt you mean European architecture."

Phillips shook his head. "No, I study the trends, habits, motivations and influences of the neo-gothic American and Western European subculture."

"Tell us a little about the neo-gothic movement." Logan crossed his arms as if this was all terribly interesting. In reality this had been rehearsed in private beforehand.

"Well, the neo-gothic movement began in the United Kingdom as a splinter culture from the punk movement. 'Goths' as they are generally known, can be broken down into four major groups."

Logan nodded with interest. "Tell us about these."

Phillips nodded obligingly. "Well, the majority of Goths can be called 'weekenders'. They participate in gothic culture mainly for sociological reasons, but do not consider themselves defined by it." Phillips shrugged. "They use the gothic culture as an expression of their individuality."

Logan nodded. "I see. Go on."

The witness sighed. "The next largest portion of Goths is what has been termed 'ultragoths,' those who are defined by their style of clothing, their music, their social circles, their sexual preferences, et cetera."

"And after that?" Logan prompted.

"After that," Phillips continued, "there is a small portion of the gothic culture which is fixated on Satan and Satanism and another which is fixated on the vampiric element."

Logan nodded, turning now towards the defense bench. "Dr. Phillips, you have been shown the evidence collected from the defendant's wardrobe and music library, have you not?"

Phillips nodded and leaned into the microphone again. "Yes I have."

"As an expert in the field of subcultures and specifically the neo-gothic movement, how would you classify the defendant?" Logan glanced toward Quinlan who was trying not to show his jaw grinding his teeth together.

Phillips leaned into the microphone again. "In my expert opinion, Niki Valtaine could be said to fall into the category of a weekender Goth."

Logan nodded. "Thank you. And exactly what —before the prosecution explodes— does that mean exactly?" He flashed a smile towards the prosecution bench but didn't watch to see the reaction.

"Weekender Goths use the culture as most of us use any other culture: to express certain elements of our personality which cannot otherwise be expressed in this society."

Logan nodded, looking now at the jury, though addressing his words to Phillips. "And how, again, do they express those elements?"

Phillips shrugged. "Depending on their unique personality, they adopt certain, often exciting or convenient elements of the neo-gothic culture and ideology, affecting their dress, their lexicon, their social preferences, their entertainment preferences and even their sexual preferences."

Logan nodded with a contemplative frown. "Their sexual preferences..." he turned from the jury and strode towards the defense bench, retrieving a file, the contents of which he already knew. All for effect. Before he turned, he glanced up from the file to Niki. She had her elbow on the table and held her face in her hand. Tired and silent, but she knew where this was going.

Logan opened the file and moved back towards Dr. Phillips. "According to the deposition of the witness who found the alleged murder weapon, he..." Logan frowned, as if reading it for the first time, "he at first thought it and the other objects like it were sex objects." Logan glanced up at Phillips who was calmly nodding.

"Yes, while in-depth studies have revealed that the neo-gothic movement does not promote atypical sexual practices per se, there is significant evidence that it promotes freedom of sexual expression and it is thought by myself and other scholars that in the sexually suppressive culture which has been on the rise since the late seventies, the freedom offered by a subculture, like Goth, can result in a greater amount of what this society would term 'unusual' sexual activity."

Logan shrugged. "Such as...?"

Philips frowned a little in thought. "I've studied bondage, domination, discipline, sadomasochism, fetishes, ritual sex... Anything that the current society considers abnormal or even perverse has the opportunity for expression in a subculture of rebellion."

"Is it possible," Logan raised his voice, lifting the stake high again and marching toward the jury, "Dr. Philips, that the blood on the stake in fact belongs to the defendant and that she was in no way involved in the murder of Megan Brandon?"

"That's very possible, yes," Phillips nodded confidently.

Logan let his arm fall and he nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Dr. Phillips. No further questions, Your Honor."

--

"What the fuck is this?" Tawnie Fischer glared down at the page in her hand.

The smug Brit across from her gave a little shrug. "Richard J. Addison, Honorary Consular Officer of the British Consulate in New York, cannot be prosecuted under American law. Diplomatic immunity, as outlined in the Vienna Convention, protects Mr. Addison from being charged with crimes while he is a guest in your country."

Fischer let the paper fall to the desk. "Honorary Consular Officer since when?"

The man cocked his head. "Since his most recent return from Britain, of course." He leaned across the desk his smile broad. "And we'll be wanting him back."

Fischer slowly shook her head, her teeth grinding. "You're with the Council, aren't you?"

The British man's smile broadened just a little. "Don't think you've won just yet," he cast a glance around her office, "this place will be swarming with our operatives before you can even blink an eye. You cannot stop us."

Fischer leaned down with a glare. "We'll find out, won't we?"

--

Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 3

Bernard Crowley extended a hand. The hand was taken stiffly and pumped once. Quentin Travers set down his travel bag and tugged his coat's collar up higher.

In the light of the airport's runway lamps, the two men's breaths were illuminated as clouds of fog only when not in shadow, creating a space of darkness between them.

Crowley lifted Travers' travel bag. "Short journey?"

"Sort notice," the other man replied, walking around the dark space towards the waiting car. The small jet behind him was already refueling. The plane emptied itself of the agents in black, cloaked in the anonymity nighttime afforded.

Crowley walked quickly after the confident stride of Travers. "I apologize for having to call you."

"It's not your fault that that imbecile Addison failed." Travers approached the side door to the black car and Crowley set the bag down to open the door for him. Travers, instead of getting in, turned and moved to the trunk of the car. "How's your charge?"

Crowley closed the door and picked up the bag again, following the man to the back of the idling car. "Promising," Crowley said with pride. In an instant, he realized the great Quentin Travers didn't really care to hear about young Robin.

"Is everything prepared as I specified?" the Brit asked calmly.

Crowley nodded, setting down the bag and reaching into his pocket for the keys to the trunk. He unlocked it and lifted the trunk. The small light lit up the contents and the breath of the two Watchers staring down at them.

Before them lay an assortment of automatic weapons and bomb components. Travers looked around at the other black cars in the lineup and the seemingly endless number of agents who got into them. There were the sounds of other trunks closing and Travers turned back to one of the many weapons stores now in his possession.

The light from the runway lights glinted in Travers' eye and he nodded in satisfaction. "Very good."

--

Trial - Part 28, January 7th, 1988

"Place your left hand on the bible and raise your right hand." The hand came down and the other went up. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Jesse Trent nodded once. "I do."

A grotesque assortment of demons stood in two lines in Fischer's office, low snarls, growls and hisses escaped the clenched teeth, fangs and mandibles. Tawnie Fischer walked back and forth between the opposing rows, examining each for their deadliness and staring into each to find their ruthlessness.

"You have a questionable duty to perform. I know this is an unusual request. I have assembled each of you because I am confident you can perform this duty without fail." She stopped before a waxy looking demon with bulging eyes. "You will prevent the Slayer from being harmed. Under no circumstances is the Slayer to be killed. You may kill any other human required to prevent harm coming to her."

Jesse Trent sat down in the witness stand as the prosecution approached him. It wasn't Eric Quinlan, but Richard Forster, who had been assigned Trent's particular testimony, who now rested his arm casually on the railing between himself and the witness.

"Tell us when you first met Niki Valtaine."

Niki closed her eyes and held her head in her hand again as Jesse recounted their meeting at Trent's Café. She should have seen it. Should have foreseen it. She did foresee it, but didn't understand her own foresight. Each vision of betrayal might as well have corresponded to each of the men who had betrayed her these past few months. Only Logan was left. Would the visions stop? She hadn't been sleeping these last few nights, thinking about Jesse Trent. She had given what little of herself she ever gave to a man over to him. He was the only man besides Jimmy she had ever slept with without telling him who she was. What she was. There had been a trust there. A comforting feeling, knowing he didn't know he was fucking a Slayer. She had felt normal. His betrayal certainly was a slap in the face. Actually, more like a glass of ice water thrown in her face. Normality obviously wanted nothing to do with her and she was forbidden from feeling it, even for a short time.

"Tell us about what you found in Niki Valtaine's drawer that night."

Niki laughed inwardly with scorn. The night she'd screwed him and left him alone. Then, while she was gone, he screwed her. He'd been even less than Logan. A cheap substitute drug. At least Logan had fed her emotional need as well as her physical. He understood, if vaguely, what being Chosen involved. He sympathized with her, felt for her – let her need him. Jesse had just been a cock with a smile and a mullet. Now he was a cock on the witness stand telling how he had found the stake she had used to kill Megan Brandon.

"Tell us about the gun you found in the dumpster."

Niki closed her eyes and very slightly shook her head. She had thrown the gun into the dumpster so some street kid wouldn't get his hands on it. Jesse answered and she kept her eyes closed, hoping there would be no further visions of betrayal. Logan was all she had. Then she blinked and the prosecution was walking back towards his bench. Logan stood.

Tawnie clasped her hands behind her back and nodded towards the three shamans at the back of the room.

"You have all been selected because you are capable of taking human life quickly and efficiently. I expect nothing less than your best. You must recognize the Slayer, then the members of the Council who will be trying to kill her. You must wait until they give themselves away. Under no circumstances are you to distort your glamour in any way—"

The three shamans began moving down the rows of demons, each waving a stick over the ranks, chanting and muttering. One by one, the demons found themselves in human form, smartly dressed in expensive suits but concealing none of the ruthlessness in their eyes.

"This is your assignment. I will accept no failures."

Logan indicated the large mug shot of Raymond Fitch. The police file photo clearly showed the black snake tattoo running up the side of his face, its open mouth seeming to devour his eye.

"Do you recognize this individual, Mr. Trent?" Logan asked calmly.

Trent shrugged.

"Yes or no, please, Mr. Trent," Logan said patiently. "Have you or have you not seen this individual before?"

Trent shrugged again but answered. "Yeah, I guess. It looks like the guy from my café."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Logan asked, crossing his arms and looking unsatisfied.

Trent sighed. "I noticed Niki watching this guy with the snake tattoo while we were talking the night we met. She followed him out. Minutes later, I heard gunshots."

"According to your deposition, you heard a single gunshot." Logan looked to Trent who nodded grudgingly. "This man," Logan turned towards the jury and indicated the mug shot of Snakeface a.k.a. Ray Fitch, "was wanted for armed robbery and assault. He was last seen in October of 1985." Logan took a breath. "His fingerprints are on file."

Logan turned and lifted Exhibit B from where it sat on his bench. "This gun," Logan said as if irritated that he had to make these connections for everyone, "was registered to Mr. Fitch in 1981 and never reported stolen. It was confirmed to be the gun which fired the shot Mr. Trent heard in the alley outside his café — the bullet and casing were recovered there. One bullet was found missing from the clip when the gun was recovered." He held the gun up higher so everyone in the courtroom could see. "One set of fingerprints recovered from this weapon were confirmed to be Niki Valtaine's, the other was matched to this man—" Logan tapped the mug shot with the gun for emphasis.

Logan held on to the gun in its plastic bag but began to pace before the jury box. "This gun was identified as the one responsible for the shooting of agent Brian Harrison — isn't it possible," Logan whirled on Jesse Trent who was caught off guard by Logan's sudden closeness, "isn't it possible, Mr. Trent, that Mr. Fitch, the owner of this gun, a wanted felon, is in fact the shooter you heard that night?"

Trent shrugged. "It's possible, yeah."

"Isn't it possible that the gun was drawn and a shot was taken at Ms. Valtaine — a shot which missed and drew attention, leaving Mr. Fitch to run away and Niki to dispose of the gun—"

"Objection," Quinlan rose from his seat. "Conjecture, Your Honor."

Judge Ortega nodded and glowered disapprovingly at Logan. "Let's keep it to what we know, Mr. Kilpatrick."

Logan nodded obligingly. "Mr. Trent," he tried a different angle. "Yes or no, you saw Niki Valtaine showing an unusual interest in the man you identified as Ray Fitch the night you met her in your café?"

"Yes," came the simple reply.

"You saw her follow him once he had left the café?"

"Yes."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Logan turned suddenly and dramatically towards the dull eyes. "The prosecution has provided us with a picture of Niki Valtaine — the shooter of Brian Harrison and the attempted shooter of someone in the alley near Trent's Café."

Logan walked briskly to his bench and slid a file from the table top. "I have in my hand a very interesting piece of information." He looked down at the file and found where he had highlighted. "On November seventeenth, 1985, the New York Police Department issued a statement offering a reward of six thousand dollars for the capture of Ray Fitch and lesser amounts of money for information leading police to his capture." He snapped the file closed and glanced up at the jury. "Is not more plausible that the night of Mr. Harrison's shooting, Niki Valtaine —unemployed, income dependant on benevolence cheques— followed Ray Fitch to the abandoned shop, seeking to claim his bounty or learn information she could pass on to the police, when Brian Harrison entered the premises and was fired upon. Not by Niki, but by Ray Fitch who feared this F.B.I. agent had come to arrest him. Six bullets entered Mr. Harrison, fired from Ray's gun... Later, Niki Valtaine tracked Ray to Trent's Café and followed him out into the alley where he shot and missed, discarding his gun and running." Logan set the file down on the railing of the jury box and threw up his hands. "Mr. Trent," he said turning on the man again. "Is this not plausible?"

Trent was silent.

Logan turned away. "No further questions."

--

CIFW - 15-15 Hazel Street, East Elmhurst, N.Y., January 7th, 1988

Niki closed her eyes in peace for the first time in days. It wasn't even lights out yet but she felt sleep coming like a familiar and welcome melody. She thought briefly of Toe Tag City and the electric mayhem they had created. Her fist closed as if she held the comforting wood — not of a stake but of a drumstick.

Niki looked around her and realized with a swelling heart that she was seated behind a well worn and both loved and hated drum set. Standing with their backs to her were the others. They faced the interior of the dark club. All was silent amid the darkness as it waited for their opening number. When Death Befalls You. It was the one she knew best. The one she loved.

Niki rolled her shoulders back and let the comforting black leather of her jacket embrace her. Warm and honest. The greatest hug she had ever known. In her dream she closed her eyes and inhaled the nostalgic smell of when times were good. When she opened her eyes again, the yellow haze had begun to creep around the edges of her world.

With a pained frown, Niki swiped her drumsticks before her, trying to ward off the encroaching vision. "No," she ordered, closing her eyes again. "I know — I don't want to be told." When she opened her eyes again, the drums were gone and her parents were standing in front of her amid a totality of yellow mist.

"You need to be told." Her father said sadly, holding his wife by the shoulder.

"No!" Niki shouted angrily, turning away from the only two people she had ever loved.

In a flash of light, the car sped into the intersection and was broadsided by a minivan. The car carrying Niki's screaming parents was thrown clear of the intersection and into the path of an oncoming dump truck. With screams and shattering glass, Niki turned away and back to her parents.

But where they had been standing only a moment ago, they now lay in open caskets, pale and dressed up. Wearing the smiles of death.

The yellow haze was completely gone. Niki looked left and right and found herself in the funeral home. Tears welled up in her eyes as she found herself kneeling at the railing before the bodies of her parents. This was a familiar memory. A piece of her would always be here. The day her life changed.

Suddenly the eyes of her parents' corpses opened and their heads turned to face her. Niki watched them through tear-filled eyes as their mouths opened and they drew breath to speak.

"He has betrayed us," they said in unison. Niki blinked and a hand came down on her shoulder. Her parents' eyes remained impassive: cold and dead. "Do not let him betray you."

Niki slowly turned her head to look up. The owner of the hand looked down at her with as cold a look as she had ever known. Addison was her legal guardian now. In the event something should happen to her parents. And something had. She was his now.

Niki's eyes snapped open in her cell. Words could not express... I understand, she said silently, the image of her parents still clear in her mind. I understand you now.

--

Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 4

Tawnie crossed her arms, her lips tight. The stupid little man had no idea what he was doing. The game he thought it might be fun to play was light-years out of his league. He had no idea that the carpet he was standing on had been where dozens of New York's best assassin demons had been standing only hours ago. The pawn did not want to be a real player. He didn't know what it meant to play.

"We had an agreement," she said coldly. He swallowed. He didn't know, but he wanted to play anyway. "Niki Valtaine is guilty. We both know that."

"Technically, she didn't shoot Harrison," Logan held up an argumentative hand, then dropped his eyes at the severity of her gaze. She wore her burgundy skirt and top, white buttons and severe white lace. Her graying hair had been pulled back into a bun and she looked less like a school head mistress and more like a general.

She licked her lips and strode past him to her desk. "Do you think the law doesn't apply to Slayers? You think she should just be allowed to stake anyone she wants?"

"This isn't about justice," Logan countered, turning to face her. She stood behind her desk now with her hands resting on its surface. She looked tired of arguing. "This isn't about what I want or what I think. You want Niki alive and in jail or dead. The Council wants Niki out of jail or dead. I just want Niki alive." He sighed and sat down heavily at her desk. "But obviously it doesn't matter what I want."

"No, it doesn't," she agreed. She could see he was equally tired of fighting a battle of wills on a battlefield of titans. "You have a duty to get a verdict of guilty. If you don't—" she shrugged. "I can't promise the safety of you and yours."

"I couldn't act incompetent," Logan frowned at Fischer with annoyance. "Niki's not stupid. She'd figure out that I wasn't on her side. She'd get a new lawyer – it's her right to have fair representation."

"That's why it had to be you," Tawnie nodded. "And it doesn't matter. Cases can be won or lost on the closing statements." She reached to a sheet of paper on her desk. "And here is yours."

Logan reached out and took the page with a feeling of dread. Lying to everyone simultaneously was exhausting and he feared if he got too good at it he would forget which side he was on. It also brought a fear with it. Every glance, every word. Did she suspect him?

Logan read the closing statement with a deepening frown. "This is awful. You've broken every rule of a closing statement. Even I'd convict her after hearing this."

Tawnie nodded tiredly. "That's the idea. Sabotage your case at the last minute and she can't get a new lawyer. Verdict is guilty and everyone wins."

"Except Niki and the Counsel," Logan raised an eyebrow. "They won't let this happen."

"I'm looking after them," Fischer dismissed. "The Senior Partners have never had an opportunity like this offered to them on a silver platter before. We will not let it go to waste." She slowly sat down at the desk, across from Logan.

Logan scoffed. "I'm not reading this," he let the page fall to the desk. "It would kill my career and there would end up being an investigation into my competency. Quinlan would make sure of it."

"I don't give a shit what you read," Fischer snapped. "You can sing Hail to the Chief for all I care. As long as the verdict doesn't come back Not Guilty. Get it?"

Logan was silent for a moment. He had finally been backed into a corner. Sitting on the fence threatened to break him. He would have to choose a side.

Fischer, sensing his hesitation, stood and leaned in close. "I'm going to be watching the proceedings," she said malevolently. "If I see a verdict of Not Guilty — you and everyone you've ever known are going to wish you were never born."

--

Logan knew he probably shouldn't be driving after a threat like that. He hadn't slept in three days. He hoped Niki had. He longed for the blissful innocence she still possessed. It was her innocence which had gotten him into this in the first place. Her innocence and her guilt. If she hadn't been so innocent the day they had met, he wouldn't be here. If she hadn't been so guilty the night Megan Brandon was killed, she wouldn't be here.

Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his car, waiting for the light to turn green. Impulsively, he reached down and switched on the radio. Paul Simon was singing one of the lullabies Logan sang to Hanna.

"...A man walks down the street and says 'why am I short of attention? Got a short little span of attention. And whoa, my nights are so long. Where's my wife and family? What if I die here? Who'll be my role model, now that my role model is—'"

Logan stepped on the gas as the light turned from red to green. There was one thing that was eating away at him. He hadn't put something together. Something was missing.

"All along, along there were incidents and accidents. There were hints and allegations. If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost—"

Keeping one eye on the road, Logan reached into the passenger's seat and opened his briefcase. It popped open, spilling its contents across the seat and onto the floor. Glancing occasionally up at the road, Logan searched with one hand among the papers and files until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the picture of the victim up towards the dashboard so he could watch the road more easily. Megan Brandon. Who the hell was Megan Brandon anyway?

"...he looks around, around. He sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity..."

He squinted at her picture for a moment until her face resolved itself in a different way. It was raining. She had recognized him by his coat. He had avoided her. Logan's eyes widened. "Holy hell!" His foot came down hard on the breaks. The tires screamed as the little blue rental car slid to a halt.

--

Eric Quinlan drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. This was highly unorthodox. More than that it was annoying. Quinlan had been preparing the closing statement when the call had come in. Meet me, it's urgent. Tell no one.

So Eric was waiting in the courthouse cafeteria for the one man he didn't expect to see in anything but an official capacity. Especially the way this trial was going.

Logan Kilpatrick walked into the large cafeteria, his eyes roaming over everyone but Quinlan himself. As Logan walked past the baffled Quinlan's table, he let a post-it note fall to the table top. He then walked to back of the cafeteria and walked through a door.

Quinlan looked after him for a moment, then looked down at the post-it. Men's Room.

The prosecutor sighed with annoyance and stood, crumpling up the post-it and stuffing it into his pocket. He wandered towards the back of the cafeteria, the way Logan had gone and entered the men's room as Logan had.

Logan finished checking under the doors of the stalls to see that they were alone. When he was satisfied, he stood and crossed his arms. "Thanks for coming."

Quinlan crossed his arms in turn. "Care to tell me why I have?" Logan went to the sinks and began turning on the water taps, one by one until Quinlan had to walk closer to hear.

"You know I'm going to win," Logan said over the sound of running water. "You know your case has holes in it. With everything you know now, you would never have made this case to begin with."

"The jury will decide that," Quinlan said with a frown.

"What if it didn't have to come to that?" Logan asked, speaking lower and stepping closer to the prosecution.

Eric's confusion was complete now. "What are you talking about? Did someone offer you a deal? Because I didn't authorize—"

Logan leaned in close to Quinlan's ear and held his hand to conceal his mouth. He whispered his offer and the prosecutor's frown faltered. He pulled away from Logan with a look of astonishment. "Are you serious?"

Logan nodded gravely. "Could you make all this go away?"

Quinlan considered it, looking down as he thought about the implications for both of them. Finally he looked back up again. "Why would you do that?"

Now it was Logan's turn to search his own thoughts. He turned around and began turning off the faucets. The room was assaulted by silence. "This will shake things up," he said at last. "My firm needs to be shook up."

Eric shook his head. "Your life will be over."

Logan shrugged, hoping his old friend's words weren't truer than intended. "I was going to quit anyway." He examined Quinlan's features in the mirror and then turned to look him in the eye. "Do you swear to hold up your end?"

Eric sighed heavily. He thought about it, then shrugged. "Alright, fine. But when the shit hits the fan, I'm sure as hell not going to be standing in front of it."

--

Trial - Part 32, January 20th, 1988

People began filing into the courtroom earlier than usual. The first of them were the ones with authorization from Wolfram and Hart. They all sat in various places around the room, seeming to ignore each other, but looking surreptitiously towards the door when anyone else entered.

Next to enter was a man with one hand in his pocket. Just before he walked through the metal detector, he triggered the small thing in his hand. With an almost inaudible whine, its circuitry fried and so did the circuitry of the large door-like metal detector. He walked through confidently.

Following him was a British man in a brown jacket and grey flat cap. Inside his coat was a revolver, but the defunct metal detector was silent as he walked through it.

Following him were several men in an array of black suits, all of them armed with concealed weapons. They took their seats, most behind the defendant's bench, some near the positions where the court security officers normally stood. The tension between them and the various visitors from Wolfram and Hart was tangible. The demons could smell who the agents were and where they were and with what they had armed themselves. The agents were inconspicuously making eye contact and conveying to one another the locations and number of demons.

Travers reached into his brown jacket and felt for the comforting butt of his gun. He looked from his place at the very back of the courtroom to the man just behind the defendant's bench. The man nodded very slightly.

Out of sight of anyone, he pulled his own gun into the large sleeve of his trench coat, the end of the silencer just poking out between his fingers.

The room was full now, various innocent humans packing the seats, unaware of the dangers which surrounded them. The prosecution entered from the rear, taking their seats as the door at the side of the court room opened and Niki Valtaine was led out the short distance to her seat. Logan Kilpatrick joined her, looking less than confident about the number of people in the room and glancing occasionally towards the prosecution's bench. He swallowed. Niki had no idea...

"All rise," the clerk announced as the doors to the judge's chamber opened. "The Honorable Judge Ortega presiding."

Everyone got to their feet as the man in the black robes walked into the court room, sitting down and lifting his gavel. "You may be seated," he said, tapping once. He took in a breath, his eyes on the notes before him. "We're here today—" his eyes found the audience his court had attracted. He blinked. "We are here today to hear closing arguments, are we not?" He looked to the clerk who nodded. Ortega made a little shrug. "Very well. Prosecution, are you prepared?"

Niki's hand moved slowly over and found Logan's. She turned her head and met his eyes. He swallowed but she offered a little smile. It's okay, she mouthed. I trust you.

Eric Quinlan stood from the bench, seeming to consider for a moment, his eyes firmly ahead of him. "Actually, Your Honor, the prosecution moves for a mistrial."

An explosion voices filled the courtroom, heads turning this way and that in disbelief. Each voice was little more than a whisper, but together they were a storm. Niki slowly turned her head and locked eyes with Logan again. A frown creased her brow. He winked.

"Order," Ortega said with a frown, banging his gavel. "Order in my courtroom!" The voices diminished to a murmur and were finally silenced. The agent in the front row was turned almost completely around, trying to make eye contact with Travers but there were too many people in the way.

Ortega banged his gavel once more for emphasis. "What is the grounds for mistrial?" he demanded, in no mood for games.

Quinlan took in a breath. "It has come to the attention of the prosecution that the attorney for the defendant knew the victim, Your Honor."

Logan swallowed as the judge swung his angry gaze towards the defense bench. "Is this true, Mr. Kilpatrick? Did you know Ms. Brandon?"

Logan stood and nodded once. "Yes, Your Honor."

The buzz of whispers started up again and it took several more bangs of the gavel to silence them. Travers shifted in his seat with a frown. His seat in the aisle afforded him a clear view of Quinlan as he stood to make his motion. Something caught his attention and he looked to the right. Tawnie Fischer was sitting across the aisle from him looking like she was ready to tear someone to pieces. A little spark of triumph lit up in Travers' mind. Nothing made him personally happier than to see Fischer fail.

"Why didn't you resign the case?" Ortega asked angrily. There was a moment of silence while the hushed court waited for the answer. None came. "You refuse to answer the question?" Ortega asked with an astonished look.

Logan shook his head. "I am unable to answer the question, Your Honor."

Ortega frowned once again with confusion. "You know you risk contempt of court?" Logan said nothing.

"Your Honor," Quinlan said drawing the heat of the judge's gaze. "The prosecution feels the impartiality of the defendant's sole counsel qualifies as manifest injustice."

Ortega scowled. "Why are you defending the defendant?"

Eric Quinlan raised an eyebrow and tossed a glance towards the silent defense bench. He smiled on the inside. "In the interests of a fair trial, Your Honor."

The judge nearly scoffed. "Right," he said not without sarcasm. He sighed with irritation as he looked back to the defense bench and the silently defiant lawyer there. "For once you have nothing to say, Mr. Kilpatrick?"

Logan shook his head once, also smiling on the inside. "No, Your Honor. Except that I support the motion."

Ortega squinted. "You—" Blink. Sigh. "Very well," the judge took a deep breath and lifted his gavel. "I will see you both in my chambers to establish solid grounds for a mistrial and this court is adjourned."

Bang, went the gavel.

The voices of those watching the proceedings erupted into a tide of sound. Amid the moving bodies, actual fights were breaking out. Without warning, someone let out a scream and from somewhere else a body flew out of the crowd and landed near the other side of the room. The voices were now loud and shouting and no one was listening to the angry judge anymore.

Men in uniform burst in from the side doors and from the rear. They had their hands on their weapons as they tried to pinpoint the aggressors. Two officers stood at the rear doors, preventing anyone from leaving.

At the front of the courtroom, Quinlan and the prosecutors were backing away from the mob sitting behind them. There was a snarl and several more screams. The sound of gunshots through a silencer and every officer's weapon in the room was out. The shouts and voices intensified as everyone now tried to get the hell out.

Logan leaned down to whisper in Niki's ear, knowing she would never hear him otherwise. "The charges against you are being dropped. You're free to go." He met Niki's eyes as she tried to comprehend what was going on behind them. He was trying to think of a nice way of saying that now that she was free, everyone would be trying to kill her, but a demon suddenly launched itself from the front row of seats at the Slayer.

With a snarl and three pops, it caught an agent's bullets in the back and landed dead on the table between Logan and Niki. It's glamour restored, officers approached it with guns drawn. Niki and Logan stood and made their way between the thickening group of officers in uniform at the front of the courtroom as the judge was escorted into chambers under guard.

As the panicked courtroom tore itself apart, Quentin Travers slipped out the main entrance and disappeared. The loud bang of nine millimeter police pistol shots spurred his exit. At least Fischer had failed. The Slayer... That matter was far from resolved.

--

Monday, January 25th, 1988

Rachel took the mail from the floor by the front door with a frown. The sun shone in and the thin layer of snow over everything was sparkling. The frown came from an unrecognized letter sitting among the bills and junk mail. She knew it wasn't junk because junk was addressed either to Logan or to both of them. This was addressed just to her.

She brought it to the kitchen where she set the rest of the pile down by her coffee. She tapped the envelope's contents to one end, then ripped off the other end. The single sheet of paper slid out into her hands.

As she read the letter, her frown disappeared and all thoughts of a day of coffee and paying bills vanished. As she took in the contents, her face froze in a look of pure shock. Her gaze drifted up from the letter to the sunlight pouring in the window.

The letter slipped from her numb fingers and landed silently on the counter top.

...with regrets,

Tawnie Fischer


	9. Justice

Justice - Act 1

Niki's smile blossomed into a full and musical laugh. Her eyes lit up and she shook her head with amusement. "What's this?"

As Logan led Niki into her apartment, Whistler, Jessica and several people she didn't know all stood and applauded. "It's your party," he said with a grin, "Happy Mistrial." He kissed her on the cheek.

Niki laughed again, slowly entering and looking around. Besides Whistler and Jessica, the seer, there were five others whom she didn't know. They all seemed to be laughing and having a good time, regardless.

Whistler waved them off as Niki approached him. "Demons I know — don't worry, they're all friendly and... only mildly evil."

Niki nodded, the smile still in her eyes. Turning her head from the store bought cake sitting on the kitchen table, she noticed several decorative packages partially concealed on the kitchen chairs under the table.

"What's all this?" she walked into the kitchen and Logan hurried past her.

"Uh, presents," he said quickly, sliding a chair back under the table to conceal its present. "They're for later," he insisted. The Slayer nodded with mock seriousness and glanced at the whiteboard on the fridge.

Happy Mistrial!

Niki's smile was renewed. She turned and grabbed Logan around the waist, pulling him close and hugging him. "Thanks," she said into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight. The embrace lasted for several seconds until Jessica entered with a quizzical frown.

"Hey, you two going to cuddle all night, or are we going to get this party started?" The instant she finished talking the apartment erupted with sound. Someone had put on a tape of the Ramones in concert and cranked the volume higher than medical professionals recommended.

Niki and Logan entered the small living room and saw everyone crowding around the coffee table. It had been set up as a small bar with various hard drinks and stacks of disposable shot glasses.

"We've brought the kinds of alcohol you like," one of the demons said with a grin. "And we brought some kittens for later." Before Niki could enquire about the kittens, a shot glass was placed in her hand and filled.

"To manifest injustice," one of the demons said with a loud laugh which could just barely be heard over the music, "and many more!" All the heads tipped back and nine shot glasses were emptied.

Later into the night, when the cake was mostly gone and the floor was littered with small plastic cups, Logan and Jessica brought out a stack of presents. He wore a big grin and Niki held his eyes for a long moment as Jessica arranged the packages around the Slayer on the couch. Whistler turned down the music to a more appropriate level.

"First," Logan said, lifting a shiny package and handing it to Niki, "let's get the official stuff out of the way." She tore it open and found inside a large manilla envelope. "Your personal effects from Riker's," Logan said with a smile. Everyone laughed and Niki thanked him with a light punch to the knee.

"Next," Whistler handed over a small box with a red plastic bow on it. She opened it and found it filled with mail. "All your bills for the last two months." Several of the demons laughed and poured some more drinks.

"You know how to make a girl feel welcome," Niki said with a friendly glare at the demon in the plum jacket. He shrugged with a grin.

"You might want to open the next few in private," Logan advised with a glint in his eye. "The contents of your closet seized as evidence," he handed her several packages which were obviously bundles of clothes wrapped in shiny paper.

"Give her the next one!" Jessica called out. Whistler agreed, raising his shot glass. Logan acquiesced and reached beside the couch for the last present.

"What is it?" Niki frowned, trying to look around him.

"Stand up," he told her, hiding what it was with his body. She flashed him a skeptical look, and finally stood up. "Turn around," he said with a grin. With a raised eyebrow, she did.

It was like slipping into a warm bath. Logan draped the worn, black leather over her shoulders. He gently took her shoulders and turned her around again. Swallowing, she looked at each of them in turn, wondering how much of what she wanted to say had survived the dozen shots.

"I don't know some of you," she said bluntly. Some of the demons grinned even wider. "Some of you I know, but have never really appreciated," she looked from Jessica to Whistler. "And some of you I just want to throw on the floor and fuck all night long," she didn't make eye contact with Logan, but she felt his nearness like a warm glow. She looked from the grinning demons to Whistler and Jessica. "I guess what I'm trying to say is thanks. Something it's taken me a long time to learn... is this..." she blinked and swayed a little, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. "Good friends... are the difference between a conviction and a mistrial."

"Hear, hear," one of the demons raised his shot glass and all five of the demons drank.

Jessica slowly turned to look at Whistler. "That... was so beautiful." She leaned in and planted a kiss on the demon's lips. Several of the other demons roared in laughter and the music was turned up again.

With a steady arm, Logan guided Niki into her room and closed the door. He sat her on her bed and knelt before her. "Niki, we have to talk. Seriously."

Niki nodded. "Sure. What is it?" She was still a little unstable, but sitting and listening to the sobriety of Logan's voice had exactly the effect he intended.

"The mistrial changes some things," he said, keeping his eyes locked with hers. "The State has dropped the charges against you, and my firm, which wanted to see you get locked up for life, is now back to trying to kill you."

Niki nodded with a smile. "Back to old times, then, is it?"

Logan shook his head. "The thing is, the Council was trying to kill you. They're pretty dead set against aiding my firm, but I don't know what they want any more."

Niki's eyes narrowed. "I have a feeling they're going to want me dead even more pretty soon." She squinted with sudden confusion. "Don't you have to work tomorrow? What is this, Wednesday?"

"Tuesday," Logan corrected distantly. He'd been dreading going back to Wolfram and Hart. He knew eventually he'd have to face what he'd done. He had no doubt that there would be consequences, but technically, he had promised not to get a verdict of Not Guilty. And there had been no such verdict. He doubted that would satisfy Fischer, however. "You're right, I do have to get to sleep." He gave her a gentle shove in the center of her chest. "And so do you."

She grinned and let the force of his shove carry her over backwards onto the bed. With her eyes closed and a smile on her face, she slipped into unconsciousness wrapped in the warm embrace of her beloved jacket.

Waking up late the next morning, she found her apartment still littered with small cups and open bottles. Fortunately, none of her guests had decided to stay the night. Niki began making her way through the party rubble when, with a frown, she heard something mewing behind her couch.

She reached back and retrieved a small squirming ball of fuzz. As she looked at the kitten, she realized something which nearly made her drop the poor thing. Last night... no vision. She shook her head once to clear her thoughts and realized what she had to do. It was certainly a sobering thought.

Coffee first, her brain demanded. Mess later. She was about to set the kitten down when she realized the environment into which she'd be setting it. There was that mess to clean up too.

She carried the little fuzz-ball into the kitchen and glanced casually at the whiteboard, drawing a smile back from last night's party.

Happy Mistrial!

call me -L

--

Logan waited at his desk for Niki to call. He knew that while his cycle had returned to that of a normal human this past year, Niki remained a nocturnal animal. A few months in prison couldn't change that. He expected the call sometime around noon, factoring in the coffee element.

His eyes lifted every few seconds now from his desk to the door where he expected to see a fuming Fischer carrying a sword or torch or goat's head or something. Logan had been going through his arsenal of spells and invocations, tallying up exactly the amount of power he had if something big were to come after him or his family — he had decided on a nice broad-based Sumerian protection spell. Tawnie had threatened Rachel so he'd enchanted his wife's wedding ring while she was sleeping. One item he knew she never took off. Tawnie wouldn't be able to touch her without going through him. Which, of course, was always an option.

So Logan sat uneasily at his desk, glancing up every time someone walked by, waiting for the inevitable.

Occasionally, though, he did glance down at the case he was building. Burned in his memory was the image of the demon bar he had visited when he had been looking for a mercenary to kill the demon Wehx. Five innocent people strung up from the ceiling, eaten alive in the middle of a human / vampire heroine orgy. Wolfram and Hart had the power to shut them down. They wouldn't, of course — they'd likely do all they could to keep it up and running. But then, they wouldn't know.

The case itself was just a cover. His contract with Wolfram and Hart stipulated that he needed to give six weeks notice before pulling out. Because he had overestimated the length of Niki's trial, Logan now had one week left with this firm. And he certainly didn't want to be assigned any more cases — he'd be fine never seeing Tawnie again for as long as he lived.

So he glanced occasionally at the case on his desk. Finally, someone did step into his office and Logan nearly jumped out of his skin. Michael gave an odd frown, then looked behind him to check what Logan was so anxious about.

"No, it's fine. Come in, Mike." Logan closed the file and stood.

"It's Michael, actually. Never cared for the diminutive." The tall dark man in the white silk shirt and blue silk tie sat down across from Logan, setting a small duffle bag next to his chair. Logan nodded and sat.

"Right, sorry. Didn't mean to presume–"

"I'm here in my official capacity as your liaison to Tawnie Fischer." Michael cut straight to business, folding his hands and cocking his head. "I regret to inform you Ms. Fischer has been let go."

Logan blinked. Luck? Me? "The Senior Partner's fired her?" he asked with incredulity.

Michael considered this. "In a manner of speaking. It would be more accurate to say she was let go."

Logan frowned, giving an uncertain little chuckle. "Let go how?"

The other man shrugged. "From fifteen storey's up." He caught Logan's surprise and held up a hand, "oh, don't worry — she was given a very generous severance package."

Logan breathed slowly inward. He breathed slowly outward. He didn't want to know what very generous meant. "Because of the mistrial?"

Michael shrugged. "You're asking the wrong person. I'm just here to tell you that since my volunteer work was exclusively between you and Ms. Fischer, I'll be leaving and resuming my day jobs."

"Right," Logan nodded. "At the ICU and all that." Michael nodded in response but was otherwise silent. "Well, thanks for the heads up—"

Michael snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot." He reached down beside his chair into his duffle bag. "This had a post-it on it with your name on it." He set the thing down on Logan's desk.

Logan nearly gagged. Now he knew what very generous severance package meant. He swallowed. Tawnie Fischer's head did not. His eyes rose to meet Michael's. "Thanks," he said weakly.

Michael nodded and stood to leave.

--

Justice - Act 2

Rachel slowly set the patient's chart down. The electrocardiogram blipped steadily. Dr. Iverson would be in to see his patient any minute now. For the time being, Rachel was this unconscious man's only company.

"Peaceful, isn't it?" a gentle voice said from behind her.

Rachel turned to see a tall dark man in dark green scrubs. His clip said Visitor and Rachel remembered seeing him before on this floor. She looked back to the patient. "With the amount of morphine in him, he better be."

"I don't mean him," the man said with a smile, stepping up beside her. "I love the ICU. No one ever complains."

"You come here often?" Rachel asked innocently. Personally, she hated the ICU. When people weren't complaining, somehow they seemed farther away from life.

The man nodded. "The name's Michael. I don't actually work here," he indicated his ID tag. "I volunteer with a charitable organization which visits critical patients. I volunteer a lot."

"Noble," Rachel said dryly, not taken in by his smile and gentle demeanor. "In my experience it's easy to visit patients when they don't expect anything of you. Or when they're unconscious."

Michael laughed. It was a deep and warm laugh and Rachel found herself involuntarily lowering her shields against him. "True enough," he said with a gracious bow. "I concede; your job is much harder than mine."

"I didn't say that," she argued, turning to him as he stepped away. "I just..." She dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" She extended a hand. "I'm Rachel. It's good to meet you, Michael."

The bleeping of the ECG quickened as Michael took Rachel's hand. Instead of the friendly shake she expected, he brought her hand to his mouth and gently placed a kiss between her knuckles. She blushed.

"Come for dinner," she said suddenly, unaware of what she had said until it was already out. He lowered her hand, a bit surprised. "At my house — I'd love it if you came for dinner and met my husband and daughter."

Michael dropped her hand and glanced back at the patient behind her. "I think your patient—" His words were cut off by the sustained tone of the ECG. Rachel jumped and called a crash cart. In the bustle, Michael faded into the background and by the time the man was pronounced dead, he was gone.

--

Logan glanced up at the unlit sign painted in black onto the cement wall above the door. Malleus it said. He took a breath, knowing what he would find, and entered.

He stepped over the patchy cement floor and moved directly for the bar. The place was more crowded than when last he had visited. Almost all of the tables were full and the there were only a few stools empty at the bar. From beyond the curtain leading to the 'party' room in the back, the pounding base of music could be heard. Logan considered what else was back there and shuddered. He would only go back there as a last resort.

"What?" the barkeep demanded with irritation. He looked busy, twisting his cloth inside a glass and setting it aside. Logan glanced up at the drinks scrawled on the little chalkboard.

"Uh, smyte," he said, trying to resurrect a little authority. He was, after all, no stranger to demon bars. The glass came back to him filled with rye and holy water: A strong drink for a vampire, but the only thing served which was palatable to Logan.

Logan took a sip and glanced to his left to the vampire who sat there. The tall mug of blood had left the creature's lips and teeth red.

"Tough night?" Logan asked casually. The vamp didn't even turn to acknowledge the words. The lawyer shrugged and turned back to the busy bartender. No time like the present.

Reaching into his khaki jacket, he pulled his business card, proudly displaying the Wolfram & Hart logo.

"Hey," he called to the barkeep. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

The muscle with the dishrag squinted at the card and stepped closer. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You're going out of business." He stood from the stool, setting the glass of smyte down next to his threatening business card. "Tonight. Right now. Party's over." He craned his neck to look at the curtain. "So why don't you tell everyone to get lost."

The barkeep glared at Logan for a long moment, then his expression softened. "You've got a fucked up sense of humor," he said, pointing a finger at Logan's chest. "And don't think that card gets you a free drink. Six fifty."

Logan forced a little chuckle, as if insulted. "I don't think you understand. This is no joke. Pack up your filthy business and get the fuck out of New York. You don't want to find out what my firm can—"

Logan's sentence was finished when he was flat on his stomach on the pavement outside the bar. His skin tingled with the electricity of the counter spell. Without it, he would have been dust. A counter spell didn't stop three thugs from pounding his face black and blue and dropping him unceremoniously into the parking lot.

He groaned and touched a gash on his forehead. Slowly he got to his feet. "Okay, ow." He brought his hand away from his head and found blood on his fingers. "So asking politely isn't the solution. Imagine that."

--

Addison glanced around the apartment. "Are you alone?"

Crowley followed the old man's stare and cocked his head. "Worried about someone finding you?" he asked smugly.

Addison pushed past the other former Watcher and set his suitcases near the couch. "The Council has cut me off. I have no access to our New York accounts and no way of buying a plane ticket back to London."

Crowley, still standing by the door, raised an eyebrow. "What do you expect me to do about it?" He closed the door and stood with his arms crossed. "Can you really blame them? You failed. Miserably. Twice."

Addison turned fiercely. "The girl can't be controlled! It's not my fault she went out of control — and certainly not my fault she survived the trial." He scoffed, sitting himself down heavily on the couch. "The Council agents were nearly all killed and the Slayer lives. This is Travers' failure, not mine."

Crowley shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. We've lost all semblance of control when it comes to Niki Valtaine. She'll never trust another Watcher again for as long as she lives."

"She's become a rogue element," Addison said bitterly.

"And the Council doesn't tolerate rogue elements," the other answered. "I expect they'll do everything in their considerable power to apprehend her — or worse."

"Apprehend who?" a voice said from the hallway. Both Addison and Crowley turned to see a young boy standing with his arms crossed near the end of the couch.

Crowley scowled. "Never mind. Return to your room. I have a visitor."

The boy rolled his eyes and turned to go. Addison looked after him with awe. "That's Robin?" he asked with a quiet tone.

"Yes," Crowley said with a troubled look in his eyes. "It would obviously be best to keep him out of this matter. His opinion on Slayers isn't exactly objective."

Addison nodded. "He's taller than when last I saw him," he shook the thought from his head. "Crowley, you must get me a plane ticket. I can't remain in New York any longer."

The other man shrugged, positive this old man's problems were not his concern. Besides, the Council's directive was clear. "I'll see what I can do," he lied.

--

Niki muscled her way between two hulking creatures. Now she was seated on a tall stool at one of her least favorite bars. She knew what was behind the curtain in the back, but she got along by not thinking about it.

When the barkeep came along, she knew enough not to order any of the drinks here. There was nothing which looked less than poisonous to a human stomach. Besides, she hadn't come here for drinks.

"I'm looking for someone who can help me with a problem," she said over the clink of drinks and the solemn conversation.

"What kinda problem," the barkeep asked, looking her over and baring his teeth. Niki suppressed a shudder.

"The kind that needs to be killed," she answered boldly.

The patron nodded and turned from the customers to a small chalkboard by the old cash register. There were several names scrawled there of demons who had come tonight and considered themselves open for business.

"We got a Glarghk Guhl Kashmas'nik," he squinted at the other names, "a couple of Fyarls, a visiting Mok'tagar, a Werlech and some girls from Arashmahaar. Take your pick and I'll point em' out."

"The person I need dead is a Slayer's Watcher. Which do you recommend?" Niki kept all the heavy bitterness from her voice, but it was clear to the barkeep that this was personal.

The muscle sighed. "Well, unless this Watcher is your estranged boyfriend, the gals from Arashmahaar can't help you." He thought, and then laughed out loud. "And good luck controlling the Glarghk Guhl Kashmas'nik."

"What about the Werlech guy?" Niki glanced impatiently around, searching for a likely candidate.

The barkeep looked Niki up and down, then shook his head gravely. "You couldn't afford him." He took a deep breath and glanced around. "And the Mok'tagar is in the back—" he indicated the curtain from behind which certain hellish noises were coming.

"All right, the Fyarls, where are they?" Niki stood from the stool. Following the barkeep's finger, she found her way to a table in the deepest, darkest corner of the entire place.

Two massive demons sat across from each other at the small round table, their long re-curved horns looking quite superfluous. But Niki had very little choice. She was not going to the 'party' behind the curtain just to find some Mok'tagar.

"Good evening," she began, approaching the Fyarls' table. "I was told you might be able to help me with a human problem I have."

Neither of the great horned heads turned in her direction. The two great demons continued eating what looked like uncooked flesh. Blood from their plates dribbled onto the patchy cement floor where it mingled with untold other dried fluid.

"Hey!" Niki slammed her fist onto the table, making their plates jump. "I'm fucking talking to you!"

As one, both great heads turned in the near darkness to appraise her. As one, they both turned back and continued eating.

"I need someone killed," she said firmly, looking from one to the other. "And I can pay."

One of the horned heads turned back again while the other continued to ignore her. "What can you pay?" it asked with slow words.

"What do you want?" Niki prompted. "Whatever it is, I can get it."

The second head turned and bowed down to get closer to the Slayer. He inhaled long and deep, then a smile spread across his face. "You smell like kittens."

The other head nodded as it tore some flesh between its teeth and set the pink bone back on the plate. "We like kittens."

--

Logan slowly got out of his car. The gash on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but not hurting. It was on these rare occasions that he wished his showy magic included basic healing techniques. Unfortunately, his eagerness to increase his power had led him exclusively in the direction of attack and defense. His skin still tingled.

The warmth of the house —his house— was a welcome haven from tonight's adventure. He opened the door and stepped inside, peeling off his coat with a wince at the pain in his arm. He rehearsed his cover story for Rachel and Hanna: he had been mugged outside the office. He knew Hanna probably wouldn't believe him, having seen his powers before, but Rachel would and that was what was important.

As he walked towards the kitchen, he heard the unfamiliar sound of three sets of laughter. Something turned in his stomach and his skin began to tingle again. He walked carefully towards the sound of the voices, his hands behind his back, concealing his glowing fingernails.

"Honey, you're late," Rachel had the bright look in her eyes from a long bout of laughter. "Logan, this is Michael, from the ICU at the hospital."

Logan froze. His eyes fixed on the man sitting at his table, eating with his family. His heart pounded in his chest.

"We've met," he said, not more than a hoarse whisper.

"Michael volunteers at my school too," Hanna piped up. "He's in the guidance office," she beamed, obviously enjoying dinner immensely.

"A grief counselor," Logan said quietly.

A little frown creased Rachel's brow. "Yes — how did you—?"

"We've met," Logan repeated, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He could almost hear the hum of electricity in his tight fists.

Michael wiped his mouth politely with a napkin and stood. "Yes, I did some volunteer work at Wolfram and Hart, Logan's law firm," he addressed Rachel, then let out a little laugh. "I didn't realize he was your husband." Michael's smile was broad and sincere. In everyone's eyes but Logan's.

Still, the man forced a pleasant smile onto his face. "Honey, could I talk to you for a moment?"

Rachel looked from her husband, a brooding shadow in the darkness of the hall, to Michael, a smiling, charming man with an endless supply of stories from his various volunteer jobs. She, too, forced a smile onto her face and stood. "Sure, honey."

Logan took her arm and pulled her into the far corner of the living room. "Get rid of him," he said in a harsh whisper.

Rachel frowned. "What?"

"He's not someone I want you and Hanna spending time with," Logan's tone was hard but edged with worry. It couldn't be a coincidence that Tawnie had threatened Logan and Rachel and now someone from Wolfram and Hart was showing up at her work and in his own house.

"Excuse me, but since when do you get to dictate who I spend time with?" she demanded with a cold glare. "You don't have the right to judge my friends—"

"Listen to me," Logan hissed, bringing her closer to look hard into her eyes. "This man is dangerous. I don't want him around you or Hanna."

She scoffed. "What do you want me to do? Just find another hospital? Find Hanna another school?"

Logan's eyes blazed. There was laughter from the kitchen. Hanna's laughter. "If that's what it takes," he said through clenched teeth.

Rachel pulled her arm from her husband's grasp with a look of contempt. "You know what? Screw you. You don't get to fuck around behind my back then judge my friends." She turned and stormed back to the kitchen.

Logan fumed. The electricity arced and sputtered between his fingers. Suddenly the lights in the whole house dimmed for a moment. In the unlit corner of the living room, out of sight of the kitchen, Logan disappeared in a twist of light. Soon, the laughter started up again.

--

Justice - Act 3

Michael lifted his jacket from the coat rack and flashed a grateful smile to Rachel. "Thank you very much for this evening. It was a delicious meal and I always enjoy the company of new friends."

Rachel smiled back. "Our home is your home. We were glad to have you over..." her smile dwindled. "I'm sorry about my husband— he's been having a tough time at work lately and..."

Michael held up a hand. "No need to explain. We all get stressed out sometimes." He bowed graciously. "Some jobs are harder than others."

Rachel's smile resurfaced as Michael opened the door to leave. "You have a good night," she said sincerely. "And safe drive home." The door closed.

In the cold starlight, Michael glanced up with a little grin. His breath fogged up in a cloud before him. "I don't drive." And he was gone with the sound of great beating wings.

--

With a furious twist of light, Logan appeared again in the parking lot of Malleus, near the blood stain left by his forehead earlier this evening. No chance of that now.

Looking around, Logan, his hands glowing yellow and followed always by the buzz of electricity, searched his surroundings for the smell he was looking for. A very pungent smell which any sleuth could identify.

With a determined and unstoppable glare in his eyes, Logan jumped the chain link fence between the parking lot and the yard next door. He stalked through the thin dusting of snow, his footprints leaving black ice behind him.

With a vicious kick, he forced open the door to the small shed in the back corner of the yard. Looking around, he found the source of the faint smell. Heedless of the heat coming off his hands, he snatched the red gas can and leapt back over the fence.

--

Niki shifted uncomfortably in her leather jacket. She had met some odd demons in her time, but this...

The Fyarl demons had left a while ago, their price set at twelve kittens each and Niki now sat with the Glarghk Guhl Kashmas'nik, discussing the refinement process of the drug he produced. Surprising articulate after a few drinks, the demon, who called himself Karl, showed her the needle-like quill which he used to inject and incapacitate his prey.

Niki nodded with feigned interest, wondering how the conversation had ended up where it was, until Karl began to describe the process by which his venom was distilled and collected in powder form for use as narcotic. Karl described how pleased he was at the amount of money he was bringing in and recounted his own initial doubt about the forecasted popularity of the stuff, wondering why anyone in their right mind would intentionally ingest poison.

Niki swallowed, not about to reveal her past addiction to the performance-enhancing Stuff, glad she was finished her business and could technically leave, though not sure exactly where she was going to get twenty four kittens on such short notice. Then she noticed something very odd. One of the vampires from the bar had left his empty glass and money and was standing at the door, pushing the handle. The door refused to open.

--

Icy footprints made a circle around the entire building in which the Malleus was located. Dousing the walls and ground liberally, Logan then stood back, the smell of gasoline all over his hands.

Michael's smile flashed into his memory. Rachel's voice. Screw you. His jaw tightened. All he wanted was to protect them. Protect them in ways they couldn't imagine from threats they couldn't conceive. He, himself, wasn't anything they could conceive. Even Hanna had no idea who he was or what he had become capable of. He fought evil, dammit: He was one of the good guys and where was it getting him?

Very slowly, as Logan Kilpatrick stood outside the barricaded door to the horrible little hell, he lifted his eyes above its rooftop to the cold winter sky above. The stars were tiny and distant, like Logan himself tonight.

"Is this what you call justice?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. He didn't know who he was talking to, but he knew how to get their attention.

Raising his hands, he released the voltage between his fingers and was immediately engulfed in a ball of fire. Instead of being incinerated, the frost on his boots melted and trickled down like sweat to the scorched ground beneath him.

With a roar, the nearby gas can exploded. The fire from the living torch soon found the trail of fumes to the Malleus and spread like a fluid around the base of the building, roaring up higher and higher.

--

Despite her acute Slayer senses, Niki was not the first to smell the smoke. Many tried to ignore it but when the white streams of it began to pour in from cracks in the walls on all sides, pandemonium broke out.

Some demons, obviously immune to smoke and fire, took the opportunity to rob the place blind, finding themselves in contention with the fiercely defensive barkeep who would rather die than let a customer behind the bar.

Some demons fought with each other simply because the screams and terror got them in the mood. The vampires, Niki noted, were the first to rush to the door, throwing their weight at it in desperation. Niki wasn't quite sure herself what would happen if a vampire was incinerated, but she expected they themselves didn't want to find out and she certainly didn't want to be around to either.

Shoving her way through the gathering crowd, she came to the heavy metal door and gave it a ferocious kick. A large dent appeared in its center and a sharp pain stabbed up the Slayer's leg. Rather than cursing or holding her injured limp, Niki switched legs and gave it another powerful kick. The door opened a crack but it was clear there was something heavy holding it closed.

With a yelp, Niki was thrown aside by massive hands. The troll lifted its great hammer and smashed the door until it was a rent piece of debris on the threshold. Behind it was a car, which, under the troll's hammer, became another beaten piece of metal.

Screams of terror were now filling the small bar as flames were spreading out of the back room into the bar proper. The opening of the narrow space in the doorway added oxygen to the fire inside the building and once the flames reached the bar itself, a blue ball of flame and tiny bits of glass washed over everything.

--

From outside, Logan listened impassively to the tortured screams and wails coming from the inferno he had created. Certainly some of them were the innocent humans who had been dragged in there against their will, but being eaten alive was no better a fate.

The sphere of flame surrounding Logan shifted and rippled as vampires and demons clawed their way out of the obstructed doorway. With the sound of tearing metal, the car he had placed there went flying away and a great troll emerged from the Malleus, his hair and beard crackling red with heat. The furs with which he had adorned himself were burnt, wilted and smoking and when he emerged finally from the column of smoke which rose into the air, his smoldering clothes found fresh air and burst anew into flame.

Several figures similarly clothed in fire ran screaming from the fire storm, paying little or no attention to the coherent sphere in the center of the parking lot in which the arsonist stood.

"This is what I call justice," Logan shouted to whoever might now notice him. The sound of the raging fire overwhelmed his words. Suddenly a jet of blue flame shot out of every window and out the doorway of the building. The windows shattered outwards and the fire redoubled in intensity.

"Am I weak?" Logan shouted as loud as he could, the stars now concealed by the tower of smoke. "Should I be afraid?" he said the last with a grin, laughing with delight as the building began to collapse.

--

Niki held the back of her leather coat over her head as the blue flame subsided. The pain in her legs long forgotten, she clung to her precious jacket with blistering fingers, using it to shield her sweating body and head from the hottest flames. It was incredibly difficult to breath. Her eyes felt like they were watering acid and her lungs refused to accept the air she managed to force into them.

Finally she hauled herself from the furnace, first realizing she was out when her lungs filled with icy cold air. Coughing and gasping, she forced herself to her feet and moved toward the light. Was she dead? Dying? The light seemed to be at the end of a dark tunnel. But it wasn't a pure light. It was red and ugly. It was undulating and changing... Niki blinked through stinging eyes and finally focused on the light which was not the end of a tunnel but in fact a distinct object.

Logan felt the first bead of sweat on his brow when he saw a figure crawl from the flames holding a jacket before her. The flames which had encased him were beginning to take their toll. No, it was more than that. A sudden doubt had entered into his mind.

The girl he saw stood and, unlike anyone else emerging from the inferno, began to make her way towards him, dragging her jacket behind her. A sick feeling churned in Logan's gut as the light thrown by his cocoon illuminated her face.

Then Logan looked down in horror as he realized the soles of his boots were melting. He released his hold on the flames around him and they dropped away to nothingness... just as the building collapsed.

With a blast of smoke and flaming debris, Logan and Niki were thrown away from the Malleus, landing hard on the pavement. Logan groaned and wished he had the strength to pull his scorched boots from his throbbing feet. He felt movement near him and in the warmth and glow of the nearby fire, he saw Niki crawling toward him on her belly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked with chagrin.

"What am I doing here?" Niki repeated angrily. "I'm the fucking Slayer! What the hell are you doing here!?"

Logan grunted as he sat up. He winced as his feet continued to remind him of their plight. "Being a good guy," he said weakly. "I didn't think there'd be anybody in there worth saving."

Niki glared at him. She didn't know why she was madder at him: because he'd come to a place like this after he'd managed to extricate himself from her lifestyle or because he'd nearly burned her lifestyle to cinders.

She looked at his face, glistening with sweat, marred with dirt, ash and blood from a reopened gash on his brow. His eyes were worried. Worried for her. His breath was ragged and he was obviously in pain. Her glare continued.

He blinked, looking from her to the almost comically abused black leather jacket she dragged behind her. His worry remained as he looked back to her face, similarly coated with sweat, ash and the redness of the smoke.

"I think I ruined your jacket—" he began apologetically but was cut off when she pulled herself against him and kissed him fiercely. Caught off guard, he took a moment to respond, but soon he had rolled her underneath him and was kissing her in return. His skin tingled.

The remains of the demon bar crackled and snapped behind them, sending hot sparks on a column of smoke into a field of cold and distant stars.

--

Addison moved from shadow to shadow, now positive he was being followed. He didn't know who it was, but he was about twenty or so feet behind the Watcher and gaining.

The old Watcher came to the entrance of a dark alley, the shadow making it as hospitable looking as the maw of a shark. Addison rounded the corner and stood just within the cloak of the shadow, reaching into his heavy coat for his pistol. The comforting feel of the cold metal in his fingers turned the wide-eyed worry on his face to a hard determination. Fischer wouldn't get him. Not if he had to kill every one of her demon lackeys.

As he strained to hear the footsteps from the deep black, his other senses calmed and became aware of something else. Breathing. Close.

His gun went off as two pairs of demon hands snatched him from behind and dragged him deeper into the blackness.

The follower continued to stroll along the street, finally catching up to where Addison had disappeared. He looked into the shadow, seeing through it as clearly as if it were day. There was a hoarse shout and the sound of the gun hitting the pavement, then a gurgling cry of pain and finally the thud.

Michael stood at the entrance to the alley, watching the entire ordeal. He frowned a little, allowing this once his disappointment to show. Who said humans could take justice into their own hands? Michael knew to whom justice belonged. He shook his head sadly, turning and continuing his stroll.

Moments later, two great horned figures emerged from the darkness, licking their lips and thinking of kittens.

--

Justice – Act 4

Niki and Logan sat on the Slayer's couch, their feet among the many tiny plastic cups which still littered the floor. The kitten which Niki had affectionately named Felix clambered over her lap, making tiny swipes at her teasing hands with its tiny paws. It mewed constantly.

Logan was in shock. His khaki jacket, seared at the edges, lay soaked with water from his cold shower over the liquor bottles on the coffee table. Niki's own decimated leather jacket was in a heap on the kitchen table not far away. None of this mattered to Logan, however, who had just learned of the reason the Slayer had been visiting a place like the Malleus - and it wasn't to be a good guy.

Logan had always said Addison was no help to Niki. A rule-bound buzz-kill who had disapproved of Logan and Niki's illicit romance from the beginning, Addison had made Logan happy when he had left, only to return, the same as always. But dead?

"Because he tried to kill you?" Logan prompted, unsatisfied with the Slayer's report. He searched her face as she played with tiny Felix on her lap. "We've all tried to kill you at one point or another. There was no real harm done, was there?" She looked up at him and he held up his hands defensively. "I'm not condoning what he did- he poisoned you and if it hadn't been for Michael"

"Who?" Niki frowned, the kitten's mew soon drawing her attention back.

"Never mind," Logan dismissed. "I'm just saying I never thought you had it in you. I mean He was like a father to you, wasn't he?"

Niki considered his words, slowly turning to look into his eyes. "I had a real father once. You wanna know what happened to him?"

Logan's brow furrowed. "He died in a car accident. Along with your mom, right?"

Niki slowly looked back down at the kitten. Felix hopped over her knee and landed in the palm of her hand. It scrambled up her wrist then toppled off into her other hand, mewing again.

"When I was sixteen a man came to our house in Queens. He said he was from a special private school and that I had been considered for a scholarship. My parents let him in and he wanted to talk to me in private." Niki swallowed. "When we were alone, he took a big book from his briefcase and told me to read it."

"Vampyre," Logan guessed.

Niki nodded. "I thought he was crazy. He told me to meet him just down the street after sunset and he handed me my first stake."

"Did you?" Logan asked with raised eyebrows. "Did you meet him?"

Niki shrugged. "I didn't know any better. If I had known who and what he was I would have never gone. But it was exciting and mysterious I think I was attracted to the danger. I knew he was no private school rep." She shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I was just acting out."

"So you went to meet him" Logan prompted.

"I brought the book and the stake, not knowing what to expect." She dropped her gaze. "It was" She stopped, recalling with bitterness the memory. "Not what I expected," she finished at last.

"Did you know you were the Slayer before that night?" Logan asked softly, clearly seeing how difficult it was to recall this.

Niki shook her head. "I wasn't. I wasn't the Slayer until four days later. Some seer had apparently told the council I was going to be called, but was a little fuzzy on the date." She smiled at the irony of it. "I killed my first vampire that night, by pure luck, and I never forgave Addison for it."

The Slayer lifted the little kitten in both hands and looked it in the eyes. It mewed pitifully. "Then Addison made a mistake." Logan frowned and waited for more. "See, apparently, in England, when the Council comes to you and tells you they're going to take your daughter away, you just stand there and nod. Addison did his whole routine about destiny and duty and The One in Every Generation and my parents flipped."

Logan choked back a laugh of surprise.

"They had the police come and escort him out of our house. They were about to get a restraining order against him when he came to me one night – one night after I was called after I realized what I was, and he told me that if I cared at all about the world and the safety of innocents, that I would leave with him to fight against evil." The Slayer paused and shrugged a little. "Those weren't his exact words: I'm paraphrasing a little. It was eight years ago and I was kinda scared out of my mind that whole month." She licked her lips and continued. "Anyway, I basically told him to fuck off and leave me alone."

Logan nodded. "Proving you were still sane."

Niki answered with a little smile. Through it she finished the tale. "Three days later my parents were both killed in a car accident. Somehow Addison had provided documents stating he was my legal guardian and I lived with him ever since. Just the way he wanted."

Logan's jaw dropped a little. "What are you saying?"

Niki looked back down at the kitten. Innocent, playful, completely helpless. "For the last few months I'd been having visions. In them, my parents had been telling me that we were going to be betrayed." She looked up at the lawyer. "I thought they meant Harrison, Trent or Addison. I was even worried that it might be you" She laughed at the irony. "But the whole time, they meant they were going to be betrayed. Then I saw them at the funeral. They looked at me, then they looked at Addison who was with me. They said they _had_ been betrayed."

"You think Addison killed your parents?" Logan said softly. As he thought about it, he certainly didn't think the old Brit incapable of murder. Especially if he thought the Slayer line was in jeopardy, or if the Council had ordered it. He shook his head in amazement.

"I know he did it," she answered, her voice cold and hard. "And now he's paid for it. He'll never hurt anyone again."

Logan slowly let out a breath. His own immorality struck him just then. Not only had he gotten Niki off for a murder she had, in fact, committed, but he had got her set free and the first thing she had done was kill someone else. A terrifying though forced its way into his mind. Maybe she would have been better off in prison? Life without parole? She could certainly take care of herself in a maximum security facility, and she'd never have to worry about vampires or demons again – a job which she hated anyway. Maybe Fischer had been right all along, if even for the wrong reasons Maybe Niki was dangerous.

Seeing her sitting there playing with the kitten he thought about all the things he had done in his life since he met her. He had killed demons and vampires and saved New York, possibly the world, from a terrible war. But how many good people had died? How many laws had been broken? He shook his head. Human justice couldn't apply to them. Niki couldn't be held responsible for Megan's death. As callous or manicheistic as it sounded, maybe Niki was above the law. Maybe being the Slayer, fighting evil by nature, placed her above morality. Maybe Logan was too. Was Addison's death a kind of justice their own little world could accept? Was it just?

Niki lifted the kitten from her lap and placed it in the large cardboard box with twenty three other kittens at the end of the coffee table. With infinite surety she turned to Logan, placing a gentle hand on the side of his cheek and they began to kiss. Was any of it just?

--

Rachel sat very still with her hands folded in her lap. This wasn't something she relished doing, but it was clear Logan Kilpatrick was not the man she had married. Something had happened to him. Something, she now knew, named Niki Valtaine.

When Ms. Fischer, claiming to be Logan's supervisor, had written the letter describing Logan's continued infidelity, Rachel had just begun to forget about her husband's affair. Not to say she had ever truly forgotten it, but their daily routine had begun to return to what had seemed to be normal. Hanna, at least, had noticed nothing different, spending much of her time these days at her boyfriend's parents' house.

For several days after receiving the letter, Rachel had been in denial. There had obviously been some mistake on the part of Ms. Fischer, or else she had uncovered the old affair, now long over, when Logan had taken Niki on as a client. She had been sure that was the explanation, since Logan had not returned to his habits of staying out all night or leaving on mysterious business trips without any notice.

But the incident with Michael had shown her something. No matter how much he apologized, no matter how many times he said he was a fucking idiot for having cheated on her, no matter how many weekends he spent at home, laughing and smiling as if nothing had happened he was not the same man she had married. He didn't trust her with another man – he had proved that with Michael. Rachel was no idiot herself. She knew enough about psychology to know the anger and distrust Logan had for her relationship with Michael was just transference from his own guilt of having kept her trust while betraying her. Possibly continuing to betray her. That was why she was here, now. Back at the source.

"I'm afraid that Ms. Fischer is no longer with us," the man in the very expensive suit said from behind the desk which, until recently, belonged to Tawnie Fischer. "I am her temporary replacement until the Senior Partners select a more permanent liaison." The man was tall and his suit looked as though it concealed strong muscles. He had short brown hair and was clean shaven. Despite his pleasant demeanor, his features were severe and Rachel could sense he could order someone's death with the same smile on his face. His eyes, as they looked at her, were clear and intense. "My name is Marcus Hamilton. I have personally reviewed your situation and have hired for you a private investigator; he has worked with this firm before and I trust him completely. He'll get to the bottom of this, whatever it is."

Rachel swallowed and stood, extending her hand. "Thank you Mr. Hamilton." She pulled her proffered hand back when he didn't take it. "I'd like to be able to say I'm grateful, but this is all sort of a painful business."

Hamilton nodded as he glanced at her hand and blinked. "I imagine it is. But don't you worry about a thing. We'll have the truth before too long. You can bet on it."

--

Quentin Travers slowly sipped the tea, closing his eyes and savoring the taste of being back in Britain again. The breath of air and the light touch on his wrist told him something new and likely uninvited had just landed on his desk. Opening his eyes and setting down the Earl Grey, he frowned at the new document.

"What's this?" he asked picking it up and scanning the letterhead. It was an order signed by the rest of the Council of Watchers, a space left only above his typed name and the word Chairman.

"An order to all our units around the world," the man replied rigidly. "It declares her a rogue element and sanctions her termination."

Travers' chair creaked slowly as he leaned back, his expression troubled. He looked at the Senior Watcher standing before him who held a pen out, waiting for Travers to take it and sign. Travers' frown grew and he snatched the pen from the other's hand.

"What took so bloody long?" He scribbled his signature over the line and dropped the pen back on the desk, finding his teacup again. It was good to be home again.


	10. Memories

Memories - Act 1

Central Park, New York City, June 11, 1984

He walked down the twilit pavement faster than usual. His steps were quick and impatient. The sun was going down. He didn't care. He'd walk all night if that was what it took. He needed to clear his head.

It was warm, even for June, and he pulled his grey suit jacket off and folded it over one arm. He would need to stop eventually, he knew. He couldn't run forever. He was just so damned frustrated. First the school thing, now this... Decisions were being made without him — not good decisions, either. He was losing control.

He sat down on a nearby bench, glancing over to the small creek which wound its way beside the path. In the darkening evening, the water was black, its sounds emanating from what seemed like a dark ravine. It would look much happier in the sunlight, he knew. Night changed things, showed things for what they really were. Empty spaces, devoid of happiness or opportunity, in darkness became voids of fear, as they should be. Faces became masks of shadow. Words became echoes and eyes became pits.

With dark thoughts circling in his head, he followed the water's course with his eyes upstream to where it disappeared under a small bridge. With a struggling buzz, then a warm hum, lamps snapped to life, lighting the path up which he had walked. The lights passed him, however, leaving his little bench in an island of shadow, and continued along the path ahead of him. The water's surface now glinted with the pale light as the trail of lamps continued to where the path turned and crossed the river.

His gaze followed it, as if it were urging him to continue, to stray farther into the lonely night. Then with a hesitant flicker, the lamp on the bridge itself came to life, catching the figure standing there in a cone of light.

His eyes locked in the direction of the bridge and he stood, slowly, unsure of his own intentions. Soon he was walking towards her, sure that he was just walking father from home. The lights continued on down the path past the bridge, but he stopped at the small railing over the water and leaned against it, looking out as the water flowed from under them both.

They both stood for several minutes, enjoying the warmth of the night breeze and the gentle sounds of the water beneath them. Finally she spoke up and he turned to listen.

"I like standing on this side of the bridge," she said quietly. Her voice was smooth and yet strong. "I like watching the water flowing away from me. I know that it can see where it's going."

He wasn't looking at the water any more. As she stared contemplatively at the little creek, he committed every detail of her perfect form to memory. She was a little shorter than he, dirty blond hair hanging about her shoulders in a way which said she cared little for what people thought of her. From her shoulders down she seemed to be blanketed in a black leather jacket which was at least a size too big for her. Her jacket being open at the front, he could see her tight, threadbare T-shirt taut between her young breasts. He glanced back up to her face and judged her to be in her early twenties.

He recalled with regret what he had been doing when girls like her had been chasing after him. Studying. Law school had been stifling and he had managed only the occasional tryst before graduation. Then he had met her and he had made a leap of faith. The woman who became his wife. The mother of his child. She was at home right now. And he was not.

"Does it care where it's going?" he asked as the young woman looked down at the water. He sank a little lower between his shoulders and let her turn and examine him. She was similarly silent for a moment before she slid a little closer to him along the railing and the trace of a smile appeared on her lovely face.

"It doesn't care where," she answered playfully, but certain of the truth of her words, "it just needs to know."

Logan let the smile onto his own face. "Well, what about down there," he pointed farther down the river to where it bent out of site. "How does it know where that goes?"

The girl considered this, then shrugged slightly. "Sometimes it just has to make a leap of faith."

Logan leaned into her a little, enjoying the feel of the dangerous closeness of a stranger. "But leaping," he said carefully, "always ends with falling."

The girl nodded very slowly. As they both watched the water round the bend in the creek he sensed she knew he was right — knew it more truly than he could ever imagine. And for the first time he felt something. In the silence of that night he felt something.

Behind her strong eyes — her strong voice, behind the overpowering strength she wrapped around her like the jacket, an injury, a wound lay open, slowly filling with tears. A frown of empathy creased Logan's face and he reached his arm around her shoulders and held her close.

She didn't pull away or protest in any way, as a part of him still expected her to do. She merely laid her cheek on his chest and continued to gaze at the water carrying their lives away. His touch was no more comforting than the touch of a tombstone, but he was there and he, like a tombstone, had a purpose to serve.

Niki gently relaxed into the man's arms, letting him take the weight off her tired muscles. She hadn't felt warmth in the embrace of a man since... not since she had found her destiny. Since her destiny had found her. Found, claimed and enslaved her to do its bidding. Even the water, flowing along a narrow channel to be unavoidably swallowed by the sea, had more freedom than she.

He would probably leave her, the young Slayer thought, as everything else she had loved had left her. But not right now. Right now he was holding her and his strength was supporting her, his smell was surrounding her, his voice was calming her. His lips...

--

Park Avenue, New York City, March 16, 1988

Niki gasped as Logan's hands moved over her, his crushing grip, his burning lips. In the dim light cast into her room by the moon, she saw his body over hers. His skin, silver in the moonlight, glistening with sweat. He moved down her body, trailing kisses and hot caresses.

His lips moved down from her now aching breasts to linger at her taut belly. Her fingers combed through his sweat-matted hair, urging his head lower as her breath came out as low moans. Fuck. It was like a drug. The thought was immediately driven from her mind as his breath tickled her inner thighs. She sucked in a breath as he planted a gentle kiss on her aching clit. His lips began to move, kissing in circles, his tongue flicking here and there — he always knew where.

Niki groaned as he finally drew her orgasm from her. In a flash the cool spring air was washing over her again. Her eyes opened and she saw him kneeling over her panting body. He came down hard onto her, thrusting into her, holding nothing back. She wasn't some delicate flower. She could rip him to pieces and they both knew it. But now it was his turn to split her in half.

He lay down over her, holding her wrists hard against the bed, his head ducking down to take her breath away. Always he pounded into her, feeding something he couldn't name. Feeling what he wouldn't name.

They came together, as he always intended, their lips parting for the final thrust as she groaned and he sighed. He gave into her for several more heartbeats, finally collapsing down on the sweat-soaked sheets next to her naked form. His fingers slid up her slick stomach, up and down as her hand found his and interlocked with it.

Their breathing slowly smoothed out and she finally drifted off to sleep in the silver sheen of the moonlight.

As soon as she stopped guiding his caressing hand, Logan extricated himself from her soft flesh and rolled out of her bed. He pulled on his clothes and padded quietly to the kitchen where he found his khaki jacket. He folded it over his arm and turned to the fridge.

He stared at the blank whiteboard for what seemed like an eternity. I love you? He knew she didn't love him. Call me? She wouldn't and he didn't want her to — especially not at his house. You were a damn good lay? True, at least.

Finally, he pulled the cap from the marker and scribbled his words to her in sloppy longhand. In the quiet of the night and still smelling like mixed sweat, he slipped out of her apartment for the last time.

--

Niki awoke without a sound, without a word. She swallowed when she felt the emptiness of the bed next to her.

Standing up into the column of sunlight pouring into her room from the window, she wandered into the kitchen and found her apartment empty. She rubbed her eyes and moved towards the coffee pot. She emptied its cold contents into the sink and swirled hot water around, her eyes drifting over to the whiteboard.

Scrawled in Logan's cursive writing, the message was simple and in all ways true. Niki couldn't blame him any more than she could blame herself.

I can't do this anymore. Goodbye.

That wasn't all of it, thought. Beneath, in Niki's own messy printing, another message took hold of her heart; simple, and hauntingly true.

You have been deceived.

--

Memories - Act 2

Nassau Avenue, Freeport, December 11, 1980

He didn't know how they got in. He had been busy doing other things up in his room when he heard the noise downstairs. He crept down the stairs to peer through the bars of the banister. His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open. He wanted to shout to them, but he was too afraid. He was smart enough to know there was nothing he could do anyway. He was only six. This was the first time he had been only six instead of already six. The sight in the front hall below him made six seem a very small number.

Mom and dad were desperately trying to keep hold of each other's hands, but the men were strong and there were lots of them. The men were laughing and breaking things around the house. They smashed the lamps and broke the hanging light in the hall. They laughed as they did all of this, like they found it funny. It wasn't funny. Even though Matt had wanted to break some of these lamps before – had wanted to act crazy and laugh out loud, he didn't like the way these men were doing it. And mom and dad looked really scared.

Matt watched as one of the men, not so big looking, walked up to dad and hit him in the face. Mom screamed and fought against the two men who held her, but the men laughed. Then the man who had hit dad punched him in the stomach. Dad doubled over and coughed, then the man hit him in the face with his knee. Matt wanted to run down and hit the man, kick him maybe, but he was paralyzed with fear. He couldn't even tear his eyes away. That is, not until the man went to mom.

Matt's eyes widened as the man leaned over mom's shoulder, looking like he was going to kiss her. Kiss her on the neck. But one of the other, bigger men handed him something shiny – a knife. Matt sucked in a breath and thought he was going to cry. Instead, he closed his eyes tight and turned his head away. When the screaming started — his mother in pain, his father... Matt covered his ears, clenching his jaw and curling up on the stairs. After a few minutes, he heard his mother's screams die away and his father's shouts were silenced.

He slowly opened his eyes and mom and dad were gone. There was only one of the big men left in the front hall and the rest seemed to have gone to the living room. Very slowly, Matt moved down the stairs to where he could see into the living room. He let out a little whimper of terror as, in the darkness of the living room, he could see his mother's arm hanging down from the coffee table where she lay.

With a cheer, the men raised cups they held and they drank. Then, with a spark of hope, Matt heard his dad's voice again, a hoarse and desperate pleading voice begging them to leave mom alone.

With wide eyes, Matt watched as dad was dragged into view in the living room, kneeling and looking up at the man who had killed mom. Farther down the stairs, Matt could now hear clearly what was being said. The man's voice was cold and cruel. To hear him speaking to dad like that made Matt's chest tighten with anger.

"Your wife," the vampire said simply, "was delicious. You were a lucky man. Emphasis on the were." He laughed a little with the vampires around him as he refilled his glass from the dripping corpse. "Don't get me wrong — she still is delicious: she'll keep for a good twenty minutes. You were a lucky man because until tonight you hadn't met me."

"Leave her alone," dad said, his voice choking. "Don't touch her—"

"I'll touch her however I choose," the vampire grinned, sliding his hands all over the corpse. Matt couldn't see what was going on, but dad's voice hardened into a shaking fury as the big men laughed and the arm of his mother he could see jerked a little. At first Matt thought she was still alive, but when the man who had killed her came back into view, his hands all red, her arm stopped moving.

"You bastard!" dad cried, falling to the floor as one of the big men kicked him in the back. They continued kicking him as he lay on the floor until he was barely moving.

The man who had killed mom ordered the bigger men to hold dad up. They pulled him up onto his knees and stretched out his arms. Pulling on his hair, they tilted his head back. His mouth hung open as he gasped for breath. Matt's clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from shouting out as the man with the red hands took a sword from one of the bigger men and held it, pointed down dad's throat.

Dad tried to say something, but the man didn't give him a chance, plunging the sword down his throat, all the way to the hilt. Dad gurgled a spray of blood, then fell back to the carpet, the sword's handle sticking out of his mouth.

Matt was gasping for breath, tears filling his eyes, he wanted to cry – wanted to scream how much he hated the man who had done this, but he was too afraid. With his eyes tightly shut, he scrambled back up the stairs to his room. He closed the door and ran for his closet. He slid behind the hanging clothes, wriggling behind the boxes of Christmas decorations to curl into a little ball and cry as quietly as he could.

Pierce watched out of the corner of his eye as the child ran up the stairs. He wiped the man's blood from his hands into his hair, slicking it back so it would stay. He held up his hands and ordered the others. "Eat, enjoy: the night is ours."

When they had begun to gather around the corpses, Pierce slipped out past the front hall and slowly made his way through the darkness up the stairs. Sometimes he liked to enjoy a little bite just for himself. The child he had seen was little more than a mouthful, but his blood would no doubt be extra sweet. Perhaps there were other children up there... A nice plump toddler... a juicy baby... Pierce licked his lips. Of course when the screaming started, he'd have to share...

The vampire moved as silently as he could down the hall to where the scent of boy-child was strongest. Baseball cards and bubble gum. New shoe smell and the leather of a baseball glove. The Prince ran his hands through his blood-matted hair. He approached the door with the low door handle and pushed it open. It swung in silently and Pierce scanned the darkness with his yellow vampire eyes. His sensitive nose picked up the intoxicating smell of terror coming from the closet.

With a wolfish grin, the vamp stalked towards the closet door, sliding it open without a sound. Drinking in the fear which filled the small space, he pushed aside the clothes hanging behind the door. There you are... He shoved a box aside and Matt cried in terror.

Pierce bared his teeth and grinned in the most fearsome way he knew how, sucking up the terror of the little tear stained face. He loved this part.

Matt held his arms over his head, sobbing in terror. Then, amid the fear, another emotion curdled up and flared in the boy's eyes. Vengeance. "I – I wish you weren't so scary," he sobbed between gasps, curling into an even tighter ball.

Pierce frowned a little, the darkness of the closet suddenly striking him. He tentatively reached for his forehead and felt the smooth contours of his human face. He bit his lower lip and felt his human canines.

The vampire took a step back out of the closet and the crying child inside and concentrated. He envisioned hate and hunger – blood and lust. Nothing. Frowning deeply, he glared at the carpet, trying to bring out the demon inside him again. Nothing. He stepped back into the closet where the boy was still crying. He could still smell the terror. Now, though, instead of a nourishing milk the terror was a acrid fume.

Pierce nearly fell backwards, stumbling away from the terrified child as nausea overwhelmed him. He gripped his gut and staggered from the room, heading for the stairs. What the fuck was going on?

Matt swallowed his fear and peered up from where he huddled in the back of his closet. The scary man was gone. But Matt was not alone in the closet.

"There, there, honey. Everything'll be alright now." The woman said soothingly. "He'll never scare you again."

Matt swallowed. Her presence didn't evoke fear, or even confusion. She was lovely. A comforting face like his mother. Her voice was soft and reassuring. "Who are you?" he asked uncurling himself and wiping his sleeve across his red eyes.

"Call me Hallie." She ran her hand through his hair, looking into his wide, worried eyes. "I'll take care of you now."

--

Nassau Avenue, Freeport, March 16, 1988

"Halfrek," Matt crossed his arms with a sigh. "Halfrek..."

The justice demon scowled, looking him up and down. "What?"

The teen raised his eyebrows. "The face...?"

Halfrek felt her fear-inspiring demon face and laughed. "Oh, sorry," it shifted back to her casual human appearance. "I had a job downtown... tis the season for vengeance." She tossed her hair slightly and reached for the orange juice carton.

Matt scoffed. "It's always the season for vengeance."

"So, how was school today?" she evaded, pouring herself a tall glass of juice. "Learn anything distressing and disappointing?"

"The usual," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You were at St. Petersburg, right?"

Hallie frowned. "When?"

Matt frowned in irritation. "In 1918 — Bolshevik revolution and all that?"

The demon grinned broadly. "Ah yes, the Romanov's. Those were the days. We did some good work back then... changing the world and all." She looked oddly across the kitchen table to where Matt was staring at her. "I wasn't mentioned in your history books, was I?"

Matt shook his head. "No... it's just that they tell it a different way."

Halfrek sipped her juice. "Yes... time will do that to a good story. Just remember what I told you. Firsthand accounts of history are hard to come by these days."

The teen nodded. "Yeah, I know. I appreciate it." There was silence for several minutes as they divvied up the cookies on the plate before them. "Hallie," he said hesitantly, "is it okay if Hanna comes by for a little while this afternoon?"

"Oh, honey," the demon said, a little disappointed. "I told you not to pursue that... it can only end in evisceration." She finished her juice, then pulled a small bottle from her jacket. She emptied the clear contents into the juice glass and swallowed it at once, making a face. "And as much as I love you, honey, I'm not above getting Anyanka down here to beat some sense into you with your own rib bone."

Matt glared at her, knowing the threat was sincere. "I would never hurt her," he said angrily. "She's the only one I can talk to. The only one who understands me."

"Oh, honey," Halfrek touched his arm gently. "I understand you."

"The only human who understands," he added spitefully.

"Ouch," Hallie grinned. "That one hurt." Standing, she walked to the sink to deposit her empty glass. "Sweety, I have to go out tonight... you'll be alright to order a pizza or something?"

Matt's gaze dropped. "Yeah... as usual."

Halfrek ignored the last and smiled. "Great. See you tomorrow."

Lifting her arms, she flared her hands and disappeared in a spectacle Matt had long ago found disinteresting. At least she was gone. As usual. The house was his. As usual. He stood and moved to the telephone on the wall, lifting the receiver and dialing the Kilpatrick house. He smiled as after half a ring Hanna answered.

"Hey," was all he needed to say.

--

Memories - Act 3

"Ooh, more palmy goodness..." Jessica snatched Niki's hand and stared down at it very pointedly. Her eyebrows shot up and she smirked. "Gettin' busy, aren't we?"

Niki pulled her hand away with a frown. "I need to know more about the Deceivers... or the Deception or whatever it is."

Jessica folded her hands and shrugged. "I've told you everything I can — everything I know," she corrected hastily. "You have to find someone you trust to keep you from doing things which might get you into trouble."

"Well, who can I trust?" the Slayer demanded. She looked around the mall as the odd person strolled past. "Everyone's gone." She frowned and leaned closer to the seer. "Can I trust you?"

Jessica laughed out loud. "Ha! No. The last thing I need is a Slayer hanging around – I have enough trouble as it is." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Some Council agents were by earlier asking about you. You can't come around here anymore."

Niki frowned. "Well... can't you tell me anything? Who the person is who summoned the Deception? Or, where Whistler is: I haven't seen him since the party."

Jessica shrugged. "Sorry, don't know either. That's not how this works." She seemed quite unconcerned about the Slayer's troubles.

Niki scowled and stood, her eyes narrowing. "Well thanks anyway," she said coldly as Jessica turned to the next customer.

Niki took a taxi back to her apartment. She rode the elevator in resentful silence and marched angrily to her door. Sliding her key into the lock, she turned and was annoyed to find the key wouldn't turn.

"Changed the lock," a voice said to her left. She pulled her key from the lock and glared at the superintendent who stood with a clipboard under his arm.

"Why?" the Slayer demanded, in no mood for this sort of thing.

"You're three months behind on your rent," he said unapologetically. Lifting the clipboard from under his arm, he showed her the document on top – her lease. "Read the fine print," he said smugly, "you can come back tomorrow and pick up your stuff... or not, and the garbage men will pick it up." He gave her a thumb to tell her to get lost.

When she didn't move, the superintendent smirked and walked away. Niki fumed, her fist tightening. Since her mistrial, she had stopped getting cheques in the mail. She had only the money she had been saving from the silver she took from the Goths to pay for meals and taxi fare. Bills and rent had not been a priority. Fuck. When she could hold it in no longer, her fist met the door with a loud bang.

--

"Fuck," Logan turned the key in the ignition again and again, hearing only a chugging sound. The little brown Pontiac had stalled outside of Matt's house as Logan had been dropping his daughter off.

Logan popped the hood and slid out from behind the wheel to take a look at the engine. Probably the alternator. This was the last thing he needed. As he lifted the hood and peered into the dark depths of steel and rubber, he considered what a crapped out alternator would mean.

Since he had quit Wolfram and Hart, money had been an issue. Back in the fall, he had planned for a raise, planned for a new car, a college fund for Hanna... something nice for Rachel. But none of that was going to happen now.

Surprise, surprise; the mistrial had nearly ruined his reputation as a defense lawyer. Since he had quit his last firm, no other big firm would touch him. Even Legal Aid hadn't called him back. After several months of unemployment, he had reluctantly returned to his old job. Small claims. Spending a depressingly large chunk of money to get listed, he went into business as an independent and hadn't had a case since.

Things were tight, that was for sure, but Rachel was bringing in some money from her job at the hospital and they were getting by. The alternator was definitely crap. Logan had neither the money for a new one or for a tow home. He leaned in, searching for the offending part.

Spotting it, he laid his hand on it and closed his eyes. With a flash of yellow light, the alternator sprang to life and the engine roared. Alternative maintenance, Logan mused.

"I knew it!" a young voice said from behind him.

Shit. Logan slowly turned and closed the hood, taking a deep breath. Matt was standing, in a position to have seen over his shoulder the alternative maintenance Logan had just performed.

"You are a wizard! Or a sorcerer or something..." the kid's face was bright as he considered the ramifications.

Logan too was considering the ramifications, trying to think of a way of diffusing this before it got out of hand. "Look, Matt, I don't know what you think you saw, but—"

"No, it's okay," the boy laughed, running his hand through his blond hair. Logan realized Matt looked a lot like he did when he was that age. "It's good," he said excitedly. "It means you understand. I can tell you the secret."

A troubled look brewed on the lawyer's face. "What secret?"

Hanna watched the two of them through the bay window inside Matt's living room. She loved how strong Matt always appeared – how independent and fearless. The only thing she loved more was watching him and her father together. Not because Logan tore Matt down, but because he strained all of Matt's defenses, gave him a real fear before which he could be fearless. And it was amusing to the extreme.

Hanna munched on the pizza Matt had ordered (as usual) and watched the conversation. Sometimes it was particularly exciting, because Logan was trying to hide his magic stuff from everyone and Matt was always suspicious: he was the only one she knew, besides Hanna's mother, who could make Logan squirm.

Suddenly she stopped, mid-chew. Logan had started actually yelling and Matt looked terrified. He went running back to the house and Logan followed, bursting through the front door seconds after Matt.

Hanna dropped the pizza in shock as Matt rushed past her and took her hand in his. She looked with confusion from her boyfriend to Logan, who stood by the door, facing them and looking very angry.

"Hanna," he said through a thin veil of calm, "get in the car."

She sagged. "But I just got here," she protested. She felt Matt's grip on her hand tighten as Logan stepped forward, threateningly.

"Get. In. The. Car." He pointed a quivering finger out the window to the idling car. "Now!"

Hanna looked worriedly to Matt who was, himself, quite worried. Finally she swallowed and pulled her hand from his, walking carefully to the car and getting in the back seat. From there she saw more yelling through the bay window, followed by Logan storming out of the house and marching towards the car, very pissed.

He slammed the driver's door closed and drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as he waited for the right words to come. Fuck it, he thought. "Hanna, you're never seeing him again."

The girl's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "Are you... kidding me!?" she demanded, anger exploding in her voice. "Why?"

Logan threw the car into gear and stepped on the gas without a word. Hanna quickly turned and pressed her hand to the car's window. Through it she could see Matt standing at the bay window, looking back at her.

Hanna whipped her gaze forward to Logan's eyes as he watched her in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes narrowed and her voice quivered. "I hate you," she said through clenched teeth.

Averting his eyes, Logan lost his daughter's eyes. He swallowed. This was really the last thing he needed. Something that couldn't be fixed with alternative maintenance.

--

Niki stood at the ATM, carefully counting the twenties. She didn't dare look at the remaining balance in her bank account. Tucking the wad of cash back in her pocket, she turned and hailed a taxi. Considering how much she paid the cabbies of New York City, they should at least give her a free ride once and a while.

"Queens," she said simply, shuddering to think how much a trip from Jersey to Queens would cost. She just hoped she'd have enough left for a prophet.

--

Memories - Act 4

Hanna lay on her bed, angrily holding back tears. Logan sat on the bed's edge, trying to be as gentle as he could, not fully understanding what she felt.

"Honey, you just can't see him anymore. Not at school, not here, not ever." He tried to touch her back, but she pulled away.

"Why not?" she demanded, her voice quivering.

Logan knew she knew what he could do, what some of the dangers of the real world were, but she obviously didn't know Matt's 'secret'. "Because he's dangerous," Logan said regretfully. "Bad things hang around him, bad things happen to people he loves."

"It doesn't have to be like that," she said, sitting up and turning to her father. He frowned and shook his head a little. "I know his parents were killed by vampires... but they don't bother him anymore. He told me. He– he's all alone now..." her eyes hardened again, "why can't I see him?"

Logan doubted very much this kid was 'all alone' with a demon looking after him. Who knows what he'd been trained to do... what he'd been instructed to do with Hanna... Logan intended to find and kill the demon. That would be a start, at least.

"Trust me, honey. I know what's best for you. To keep you safe."

"Logan," Rachel's voice called him quietly from the hallway. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Logan slowly stood from his daughter's bed and walked to the hall, closing the door behind him. He swallowed, seeing Rachel's hard look. This wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"You made her break up with her boyfriend?" Rachel asked, maintaining a rational calm.

Logan took a deep breath. "I found out he's into drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. And his supposed mother — never around. The kid is bad news and I don't want our daughter anywhere near him."

Rachel appraised him, hearing his words, but not appearing to believe one word of the lie. "He's bad news," she nodded. "Like Michael is bad news. Like we shouldn't be anywhere near him?"

Logan grated his teeth. He had dropped the issue with Michael, the mysterious man with a blue tie when he had realized they couldn't get by without Rachel's income or afford to send Hanna to a private school.

"I stand by that," he said indignantly. "You don't know these people as well as I do."

Rachel threw up her hands. "Well, I'd like to! I'd like a chance to get to know them and form my own opinions, but you won't allow me to have them over!"

"They're dangerous people," Logan stressed, his voice earnest. He took Rachel by the shoulders and pulled her a little closer. "I'm trying to protect you! You have to believe me!"

"Why?" his wife demanded. "Why should I believe you?" She pulled herself from his grip to stare down his intense gaze. "You're back to being out all night – I have no idea where you are. You never talk about what's bothering you or why you think these people are dangerous! Why should I believe you?"

Logan's mask of intensity melted to one of hurt. "Because I love you," he said as if it were obvious. "I would do everything I could to protect you."

"Protect us from what!?" Rachel shouted, marching away from him towards their bedroom. Stopping at the door she turned. "The only thing that's ever hurt this family is you Logan Kilpatrick."

--

Niki handed over the wad of cash to the taxi driver through his window. It hadn't cost the arm and leg she thought, and she guessed she might have money left for a motel room for the night. And maybe some coffee. Assuming the prophet wasn't too expensive.

Niki started walking for the overpass of the Long Island expressway, under which she had been told a crazy former business mogul turned prophet now lived. The taxi couldn't stop anywhere close to it, so it was nearly dark when she finally got there.

The Doppler rise and fall of the sound of cars rushing past became almost hypnotic as she slowly walked towards the dark abyss that was the underside of the overpass. She was walking on the right shoulder, traffic flying past her from behind. For a few seconds each time, the world ahead of her was lit by headlights, then was drenched in blood red tail light and finally went dark again as two red eyes sped away ahead of her. In these flashes her eyes searched the shadows among the concrete pillars where light never reached. There was a mess of garbage and graffiti strewn about, but for a moment, Niki could have sworn she saw movement.

Carefully, she approached the cavern-like space between the concrete wall covering the embankment and the pillars which supported the broad dark roof above them which was the expressway. Passing cars now flooded the dark space with moving beams of light which tracked towards her between the massive pillars. In the light and darkness, the Slayer could see the shape of a person, moving hastily across the sloped wall, its arms moving wildly here and there. She stopped in her tracks and waited. The figure seemed to ignore her for several moments until she uncertainly cleared her throat.

Instantly, there was a blinding light in her eyes. She squinted and held a hand before her face to block the glare. Eventually, the flashlight was lowered and Niki got a good look at the figure who was holding it on her.

Somehow, Niki had just assumed the man to be old. Weren't business moguls old? Weren't crazy men who lived under overpasses old? The man who stood before her now was a very worn, very unkempt thirty seven year old. His hair was carrot-red and his eyes were wide. He wore several layers of clothes, none of which seemed to fit, and his hands were brightly colored.

"It's you," he said with a trace of disappointment. "I must be early."

Niki blinked. This was a prophet? Maybe not. "Someone named Whistler told me there was a... uh... prophet who lived around here."

"He's exempt. No taxes, no audits." The man switched off the flashlight, turned and continued whatever he had been doing. Niki squinted into the darkness to see, catching brief flashes of it as cars sped past.

"You know Whistler?" She asked tentatively, stepping closer.

"There's a finite amount of Whistler in all of us," the man said thoughtfully. "Not redeemable, though." He turned to her with a puzzled look, as if this had just occurred to him. "Shame, really."

"Are you the prophet?" Niki crossed her arms, getting a sinking feeling that prophet or no, this man was too far gone to be helpful.

"I am the Profit. The Assets minus the Expenses." He looked over what was on the wall before him, running his fingers along it, as if inspecting it for errors.

Niki looked from him to the wall, seeing what was at first glance graffiti and at second glance dozens of rows of numbers written in three wide columns. Glancing down at the man's hands, she could see he was writing in paint with his fingers; red, blue and green.

"What are you working on?" she asked with a little frown.

"My report..." he muttered distantly, scanning the numbers very carefully. "My editor went out for lunch, never came back. When he does, he'll be facing disciplinary action."

"What are all the numbers?" Niki asked, stepping closer. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could see three distinct blocks of numbers. One written in red, one in blue and one in green. "What do they mean?"

The man suddenly turned on her, holding up a colored finger and waving it unsteadily. "Blue," he said boldly. "Blue is you, what to do." He quickly looked back to the center block of numbers, the one written in blue. "Here it is," he pointed vaguely to some numbers at the center. "It's all right here. All the stats, all the accounts."

Niki squinted at the numbers. ...11 45 7 8 90 89... "I was told you know about the Deceivers. The Deception, how it works, who—"

"Seven," the man interrupted, pointing to the number. "That's the key. You see, over here," he pointed at the green, "this is nine." Indeed it was. "Nine is two more than seven."

Niki's frown deepened. "...Yes. Yes it is."

The man turned away from the numbers and glared at her. "I'm not crazy!" he said angrily, crossing his arms. "I can still do the math. Still do the numbers. I haven't lost my mind, you know. Blue is do, who are you?"

"I'm Niki Valtaine," the Slayer said uncertainly. "What's blue?"

The man squinted, as if she were the crazy one, not him. "The numbers are blue," he said patronizingly. "And blue for you and blue for you." He turned back to the green numbers. "And here again. Eleven. Eleven is two more than nine, and..." he looked back to the blue numbers. "You're nine."

"I'm nine?" Niki shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

"Blue," he said emphatically. "I'm talking about blue."

"Who's blue?" Niki shouted, at the end of her patience.

"You're blue!" the man shouted in reply. He waved his hand over the center block of numbers. "This is you. All of you."

"All of me?" Niki looked closer at the numbers. "I'm all blue?"

"Not you by yourself. All of you. Of them." He returned to the numbers, running his fingers over the rows of numbers. "Like here. Seventeen. You've got seventeen left."

"Seventeen what?" Niki was completely lost. All of her was blue?

"You're all blue," he said distantly, his hand caressing the blue numbers with care. "Well, not blue. Pink and brown and yellow and every color but blue. But blue."

"What are you—" Niki squinted at him as he looked at the numbers. "Slayers. Slayers are blue. This..." she looked over the numbers in the center block, "this has something to do... this says something about Slayers — about me?"

The man continued muttering. "And the Nobel Prize goes to..."

"What does it say?" Niki demanded, taking his arm and turning him to face her. "What does it say about me?"

"It says everything there is to know," he pulled his arm from her grip. "Everything is in blue."

Niki looked at the numbers, seemingly random. "But I can't read it," she argued. "How can it say anything?"

"Blue was never very smart," the man mumbled as he kept tracing a finger over the numbers. "Until it was green."

"Who's green?" Niki turned to the third block of numbers.

"Blue is x plus y where y is zero," the man pointed to the topmost line of the blue block where the equation was written. "Green is x plus y where y goes to infinity."

Niki stared blankly at the rows of green numbers. "Yeah, but who is green."

"They'll all be green," the man replied. "All the pink, brown, yellow, red... all the blue. They'll all be green." He held up a finger and a smile spread across his face revealing mottled teeth. "But not for fifteen."

The Slayer looked at the numbers for a good long time, trying to extract some meaning. "You don't have anything in... words I could look at?" she was shaking her head.

"My editor," the man muttered, "out for lunch and all that..."

Niki nodded. "Sure," she turned and started back the way she had come, but the prophet stood.

"Where are you going? I'm not that early." He indicated the block of blue numbers. "Don't you want a peek at your future? At the plan?"

Niki's frown melted. "Now you're talking."

--

Hanna was awoken by a tapping at her window. Before she had fully resolved where she was and what time it was, she heard the noise again. Very carefully, she pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed. She padded through the darkness to the dim pink glow coming from her window. She squinted out into the night and saw a figure standing below. He was lit from behind by the nearby streetlight and she could tell from the way he stood that it was Matt.

Moments later she stood in the darkness of the front hall, staring at the closed front door. It loomed before her, silent and terrifying. She didn't remember everything about that night —the night she had found out who her father really was— but she recalled she had woken up outside with vampires pawing at her.

Hanna swallowed, slowly moving forward and taking the door handle with a clammy hand. She turned it and pulled, realizing after a moment that the deadbolt was still in place. She turned the lock and then turned the door handle again. With a brave tug she pulled the door wide open.

She let out a little yelp when she saw a figure standing right in the doorway. She calmed, however, as soon as he reached in and took her hand, leading her out the door with urgency. It was Matt.

"What are you doing?" she hissed as he hurried her to the street where the taxi idled.

"Don't worry, I'll have you back before sunrise," he said over his shoulder. "I just had to see you." He opened the door of the taxi and motioned for her to get in. Hanna glanced uncertainly over her shoulder at the dark house and then back at her forbidden boyfriend. Her Montague. In the space of a heartbeat she was in the car, waiting for him to hurry and get in the other door. Her eyes were on nothing but him as the taxi took off into the night.

--

Niki looked over the blue numbers in the grey of the pre-dawn hours. Her rising comprehension had faded to a sort of sick feeling when she had realized she was looking at her entire life. Seven hundred and twelve numbers summed her up completely. Past, present and future. And it wasn't so early as the prophet had thought. Not just her life either, but the lives of all slayers before her and after until they became 'green'. Each number, even though their lives differed, applied in a different way to each slayer. And they were never wrong.

She wasn't too clear on the relationship between the blue and the green, or what the red was at all, but the blue was starting to make sense. Terrible, stomach turning sense.

"Seventeen," she said with a cold chill down her back. "That's all?"

The man nodded. "Less than or equal to the cube of the sum of the integers," he answered, "is the number of instants." He slowly traced a blue finger over the four which was the very last number. "Instants and instances."

"What does it say about the Deceivers? How many are there? How many until they're gone?" Niki reached out and touched the numbers, feeling the paint was still wet near the end. She ran her fingers over the numbers, smudging some of them, but he didn't seem to care.

The prophet slowly dropped a finger from the eight and lifted it, selecting the number carefully. "We're at now," he said distantly, landing on a zero. The zero was on the third last line of numbers, near the bottom. "And they're lost at five. Three and two and free as blue."

"Three and two," Niki considered this. "I guess you couldn't give me a name," she wondered, not really to him. "Five is good enough. Seventeen is bad, though, really bad."

"Numbers aren't bad," he said with a shrug. "They are just and true. Even and odd. Interesting and tedious. Thirteen, for example. Very misunderstood. Seven? Blown way out of proportion."

"It's just one more than six," Niki added, before she realized she had begun to think like him.

His eyes lit up and he smiled. "exactly," he held his grin and moved away from the wall to a small pile of junk. "Now you have to go," he said suddenly with a worried note in his voice. "Go now, take the blue away, don't let it ever come back. Only black here, only white."

"Why?" Niki returned her attention to the here and now.

The prophet turned and tapped the last number of the red column. "It's seventeen too," he said with an apologetic shrug. "But this seventeen is much smaller. Much more red." Niki was shaking her head in confusion when the man walked back to his pile of junk. "So much paint," he said with a scolding tone. "Improperly stored. Disciplinary actions. Too many fumes..."

A car sped by and the colored blocks of numbers were caught in the traveling beam. Niki slowly began to back away as the man began tossing garbage here and there.

"Seventeen," he muttered, "sixteen... fifteen... fourteen... thirteen..."

Niki's eyes widened and she turned to run. Her Slayer legs carrying her quickly and smoothly as she could. As she ran back down the shoulder of the road, each car caught her with its headlights. Soon she was running with her eyes closed, sensing through her eyelids each time a car past. The rush of the engine and whoosh of air.

After a good ten seconds, another sound made her open her eyes. A scraping sound was approaching from ahead and when Niki opened her eyes, she could see a badly dented car swerving back and forth across the road. Behind it, its bumper was hanging down onto the pavement and sending a plume of sparks onto the shoulder.

Niki dove out of the way as the car swerved past her and headed to the overpass. Looking up from the grass embankment beside the shoulder Niki saw the damaged car disappear under the overpass. Two... one... With a roar, the darkness under the overpass was consumed with a fireball. Bright red, it shot out on either side of the expressway above, followed by the screeching of tires and the honking of horns.

Niki frowned. Paint fumes? He had foreseen his own death... He was numbered at seventeen too. Slowly Niki stood from the grass and brushed off her white T-shirt and jeans. The wind was a bit chilly and she hugged her bare arms together for warmth.

Next to the confusion of the traffic, she walked slowly and silently back down the highway. No place to go. Not until morning.

It took an hour and a half of walking through the dim early morning hours before she recognized the signs of the kind of bar she wanted. She slowly descended the steps and pushed the door open.

Demon bars in Queens were quite nice compared to the Malleus or even the Nail Biter. The place was adequately lit and only dark in purposeful sections. There was distant, not-too awful music playing and several televisions hanging from the ceiling. The floor was tiles and looked as though it had actually been cleaned, once.

Niki approached the bar and sat herself down. The demon serving drinks approached and looked her over. "What can I get for you tonight?" he asked with a friendly enough tone.

Niki reached into her pocket and pulled out the wad of money she had been saving for a place to sleep. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, her eyes locked on a small glass bottle behind the barkeep's back. He followed her gaze and gave a knowing nod.

"That kinda night, eh?" He took the bottle of Stuff and began mixing it into a golden drink.

Niki slowly slumped forward, resting her forearms on the bar as her gaze dropped from the drink being prepared to the blue paint on the tips of her fingers. "The only kind I know."

—

Park Avenue, New York City, June 17, 1984

The young Slayer slowly drew her hand across the bare chest of her sleeping lover. Her new lover. Logan was amazing. He did things that Jimmy would never even dream of. No question, she was hooked on this handsome, blond, small claims lawyer. At least, hooked on parts of him.

She still ached in all the right places. There was a sheen over their skin, reflected silvery blue in the moonlight streaming through the window. She felt like she could live in this moment forever. No stresses, no commitments, just fantastic sex with no strings attached.

Addison would be pissed when he found out. Niki grinned. Even better. She leisurely stretched out naked on the sweat-soaked sheets next to her silvery blue addiction. With a smile on her lips, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. What a dream. What a night.


	11. Second Chances

Second Chances - Act 1

Hanna had held onto the bitterness for days, her eyes cold and without forgiveness each time she looked to her father. But now she was different. She was bitter for a reason. Logan had forbidden her to see Matt, and she was secretly seeing him anyway. And everything was fine. Obviously her father was mistaken and couldn't see it: couldn't see that Matt was safe – that they loved each other. That was the reason for Hanna's current glares each time Logan looked at her.

"Have a good day at school, sweetie," Rachel handed her daughter her backpack and unlocked the front door.

"Thanks mom, I will," Hanna smiled at her mother, opening the door and tossing a disdainful look to her father sitting in the living room. She was out the door and gone before Logan could open his mouth to speak.

As Rachel watched Hanna go, Logan set down the newspaper and drew a tired breath. "She's never going to forgive me, is she?" Though the question was somewhat rhetorical, he expected at least some token support from the woman standing by the door.

Instead, Rachel just scoffed with contempt and returned to the kitchen. Any reason she should? he could hear her unspoken thoughts.

The fights were quieting down now. Looks of scorn, silences instead of words. The only time they raised their voices was to fight about little things. Late for dinner. Didn't pick up eggs. Dishes aren't done. Marriage is crumbling.

Logan reached for the paper, but as his fingers touched its surface he stopped. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa, massaging his temples. Marriage is crumbling. What side of that argument would he end up on?

--

Niki looked out through bleary eyes to the grey light of a rainy morning. As the sun peeked between the clouds, she licked her dry lips and groaned, holding her throbbing head. Her internal clock told her it was time for coffee. Lots and lots of black coffee. But in this alley in Queens, outside of the demon bar, there was none to be had.

A pair of vampire eyes watched her hungrily from across the small patch of sunlight which divided the alley. He was waiting. Very patiently, it seemed.

The Slayer frowned and slowly got to her feet. Her head felt like a blimp and it was throwing off her balance. Her body hadn't been prepared for the Stuff she had ingested last night. And it wasn't a forgiving body.

With a frown of discomfort, Niki prepared herself to fight the creature in the shadow across the alley from her. She blinked and drew in a breath, stretching her stiff muscles.

The vampire also stood, his face growing bumpy and vampiric. He opened his mouth and grinned, showing off his array of pointed teeth. He motioned tauntingly for her to come to him as he tracked her along the alley, keeping the patch of sunlight between them.

Niki looked absently around for a piece of wood or some sort of weapon. Finding nothing, she stumbled towards the vamp on wobbly legs, steeling herself to take a beating. Indeed, his hand struck her across the face as soon as she entered the realm of shadow again. Niki blinked, holding her cheek.

"Uh," she shook her head a little. It did wonders to wake her up. "Thanks," she said groggily. Like lightening, she reached out and grabbed the vamp's collar, pulling him down to the ground, his head caught right in the sunlight.

The vamp screamed and closed his eyes struggling against her grip, trying to get out of the sun. Instinctively, Niki turned to see what he was looking at and accidentally looked into the sun herself. With a groan, she let go of the vamp to cover her eyes, stumbling back into the shadow.

"Oh, crap, that's painful." Her head now throbbing much worse than before, she massaged her eyes, trying to rid herself of the green afterglow. With a slow sigh and visions of percolating coffee, she looked to the pile of dust where the vampire had been. "Though, I suppose it could be worse."

Niki rode the bus back to Manhattan in silence, certain at least one third of those riding the bus were demons in disguise. She did what she did best when hung over and confronted with danger: she ignored it.

Getting off the bus near Park Avenue, she walked down the dull streets, the rain starting up again and soaking into her white T-shirt. Getting to her building, she saw boxes sitting by the curb. Oh yeah, she remembered: Eviction. She sat down on the curb between two of the larger boxes and laid her head in her hands.

--

Logan looked up from the mess of papers on the coffee table to the fern sitting on the end table. The papers were of the small claims variety and he knew he was damn lucky to get a case, but considering he had at one point been trying a murder case before a grand jury, he didn't feel too lucky.

And the fern he was now looking at was dead.

Brown and shriveled, the poor plant had not been watered in weeks. Probably the subject of another argument he and Rachel would have. Or worse yet, the subject of another episode of silence. But not right now: Rachel had gone to work. He had the house to himself.

Lifting the fern to the table top, Logan arranged the brown fronds more aesthetically, succeeding only in letting the papery leaves crumble in his fingers. Letting the dead plant matter fall between his fingers, Logan refused to let the state of the plant get him down. It was just a plant. He narrowed his gaze and focused on it. Looking hard into the essence of the fern before him, he could sense that some part of it was still struggling for life.

Holding his hands over it, as if he were a priest who was blessing it, Logan closed his eyes and visualized the plant springing to life, becoming green and stretching out with strong, healthy leaves again. He could feel the hum of the electricity of his power, he felt his fingers trembling as the plant heard his commands.

Opening his eyes, his heart sank. As electricity danced between his fingers, the dry leaves and twigs began to smoke and smolder. Within seconds, the little fern was a pile of glowing cinders.

Logan waved the smoke away from him, standing and walking towards the smoke detector. It would go off any second now, he knew. But it didn't. Not a chirp. With a frown, Logan reached up and pressed the test button at its center. Nothing. Like the fern, the smoke detector had likely been ignored for weeks as well. Also probably his fault.

Tromping up the stairs, grateful for the break from the case, Logan went on a quest for a nine volt. He walked dejectedly into his shared bedroom and began opening drawers. There must be an unopened nine volt battery around here—

Logan search stopped as a glint of silver caught his eye at the back of one of the little used drawers. Reaching back, he took the silver chain and lifted the IXI bracelet from the drawer, its silver surface catching the sun as it peeked out from between the clouds.

Logan swallowed. He carefully set the thing on the dresser top and reached again into the back of the drawer. This time, his hand came out with an envelope. Open at one end, Logan didn't even look at the address before sliding the letter out.

_Dear Mrs. Kilpatrick,_

_We sincerely regret to inform you of an unfortunate business we have come upon while working with your husband, Logan Kilpatrick. Certain incontrovertible evidence has come to our attention which leads us to believe that Mr. Kilpatrick is not being faithful to your marriage. We understand it is not our place to interfere with your affairs in any way, but we thought it best that you at least be aware of what your husband does while working in our offices. As a responsible employer, this firm wants to promote a healthy employment environment and while it is not within out power to terminate Mr. Kilpatrick for his indiscretions, we find it morally objectionable to withhold this information from you. If you wish to meet with us at Wolfram and Hart to discuss this, we would keep it in the strictest confidence._

_Sincerely and with regrets,_

_Tawnie Fischer,_

_Liaison to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart, New York Branch._

As he read the letter, his dejected thoughts soon hardened into ones of anger. Fischer had hit him after all. She was dead and she was still hurting his family. He had been concerned with a literal attack, magic or demons, all this time sacrificing his family to protect them... and that was what Fischer had counted on all along.

--

Niki slowly began to pick through the boxed up remains of her life. There wasn't as much as she had imagined. The furniture would probably be sold to pay the rent she owed. Was that even legal? Niki wasn't interested in saving her furniture anyway. There was only one thing she wanted.

Tearing open a medium sized box, she shoved the other clothes aside and took hold of the tortured black leather. She pulled it from the box and slid it on. As much punishment as the jacket had taken from her —taken for her— it only ever felt more like home.

As she glanced with disinterest back into the box, she noticed something else. The whiteboard from the fridge sat at the bottom of the box, a message scrawled in someone else's handwriting. Niki reached down with a frown and lifted it out, the words beginning to run in the light rain.

Go see Crowley, the message said. Niki recognized the handwriting as Whistler's. But who was Crowley? And why should she go see him?

As Niki wondered this, she turned back to the street and caught the spray from the tires of a passing bus. She swore and jumped back, still getting soaked.

You May Have Been Deceived! the billboard on the side of the bus informed her. Niki was frozen to the spot as the words sped past her. If you think you've been the victim of fraud, our lawyers can help!

--

The man with the deep scar down his cheek slowly moved from customs to the crowd of the JFK terminal. Ten thousand pounds, he'd been promised. Not the most reputable organization that had promised it, granted, but he wasn't the most trustworthy of agents either. In fact, he wasn't an agent at all. He was a bounty hunter. Ten thousand pounds for the head of the Slayer. The Council certainly was serious.

He rolled his massive shoulders back and grinned as his stiff muscles awoke. Naturally, he had been permitted to bring nothing from England which might betray his motive or identity. So... the first order of the day was to find a weapon. Then, to find the one person that weapon would kill.

--

Second Chances - Act 2

Logan walked through the halls of Dodd Junior Highschool, heading for the guidance office. The letter he had found in the drawer seemed to be burning a hole in his jacket's pocket. Michael had been Fischer's liaison — specifically to Logan. He must have known. God, he had probably known when Rachel had had him over for supper. Maybe he had delivered the letter. Maybe he had written the letter after Fischer had been 'let go.'

Logan's hands were fists as he stepped into the guidance office and moved to the small cubicle with the tag 'Grief Counselor.' Michael was sitting, patiently filling out paperwork. Logan stood before his desk for nearly a minute before the man in the white silk shirt and blue silk tie looked up.

"Logan," he said pleasantly. "What can I do for you?"

Without thinking, Logan drew the letter from his pocket and let it fall to the desk. "Did you know about this?" he asked curtly. He waited with crossed arms for the man to read the letter, the counselor's expression turning into one of genuine, or very practiced puzzlement.

"I've never seen this before in my life," he said with a frown, handing the letter back. "Is it too presumptuous of me to ask if it's true?"

Logan stuffed the letter back into his pocket. "No, it's not true." He held Michael's blank stare for several seconds. "I did have an affair with someone," Logan admitted at last, "but it was years ago, and certainly not at work."

Michael continued to be silent, staring calmly at Logan's agitated state.

Logan held his position for several seconds before Michael's calm gaze broke him. "Alright, fine, yes, I started up the affair again – recently. She was the murder case I would have won if Fischer hadn't extorted me. I didn't get a conviction, so Fischer wrote this letter —" Logan pulled the letter out again, "—as punishment. I want to know if you're on her side."

Michael shrugged. "She's dead. She doesn't have a side anymore."

Logan sighed and frowned, sitting down at the desk, across from Michael. "Who are you?" he asked, tired of guessing and worrying about this man who had saved Niki's life, then brought him the severed head of his boss.

The other man shrugged very subtly. "I'm Michael."

"But Michael who? What are you? A demon?" Logan wasn't anything but curious now, and perhaps a little irritated that he couldn't figure it out himself.

"If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone else?" The dark face drew closer, his eyes narrowing in perfect seriousness. Logan nodded very slightly. "I'm an angel."

Logan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. He frowned a little, then laughed out loud. "Yeah, right." He chuckled a little more. "An angel... like, Gabriel or..."

"Michael?" the man offered gently. The smile melted off Logan's face. Michael lowered his gaze for a moment. He took a deep breath. "You believe in demons — real, physical ones, with teeth and claws which you summon and vanquish. You believe in them because you've seen them, fought them. You don't need faith for things you've seen with your own two eyes, fought with your own two hands. What's so ridiculous about beings like that working for the other side?"

Logan's heart was pounding now. He had, actually, believed Michael for a moment, then his cynicism had taken over and he came to the much more likely conclusion that Michael was actually some kind of demon posing as a good guy. Perhaps a more clever version of Whistler.

"You don't believe me," Michael noted. "That's fine. Contrary to popular belief," he smiled at the word, "you don't need to believe in us for us to exist. We're not like fairies."

Logan nodded, keeping up the pretense of being convinced. "You don't have wings. Don't angels have wings?"

"How many angels have you heard of getting sucked up in jet engines?" Michael cocked his head. "They're metaphorical wings..." With the sound of great rustling feathers and the pounding of air, a great wind washed over Logan, making him blink rapidly. A paper off Michael's desk floated down to the floor. He smiled. "If I want them to be."

Logan took a breath and swallowed. "So... you're really an angel."

The man shrugged. "Technically, I'm an archangel, but I rarely brag."

"The biblical... Real... Archangel Michael, from... heaven, I'm guessing?" Logan was now very unsure about everything. More than anything he felt a little queasy. He remembered he hadn't felt this bad when he had been confronted with his first, real demon. Somehow evil hadn't been as hard to accept.

"Not biblical," Michael admitted. "I haven't had a chance to read past Exodus, as a matter of fact. I'm an incarnation of Michael. And I'm not from heaven, I'm from Baltimore."

Logan frowned, pausing to scratch his eyebrow with his pinky. "So... you're not the Michael. You're... a Michael."

Michael shrugged. "No difference. A higher Power sends me to do some actual, physical things that need to be done. I don't ask questions, I don't get explanations. I get orders. Commandments, you might say."

"A higher Power... you mean, like, God?" Logan squinted, trying to see through whatever this was, scam or truth. He just couldn't tell any more.

"No, his name was Cliff." Michael leaned back and sighed, remembering his calling. "That was quite a day."

Logan blinked, shaking his head and shoving all the questions aside to only ask the important ones. "So... what? You're here to see that corrupt law firm liaisons don't get irritated by lowly lawyers like me?"

Michael shook his head. "I'm not omnipotent. My assignment was Fischer. She needed a liaison to you... I got the job. Not rocket science."

"Why was your assignment Fischer?" Logan frowned. "Wolfram and Hart doesn't seem like an appropriate place for an angel to find work."

Michael allowed himself a little smile. "Are you questioning the will of Cliff?" He dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "If you haven't noticed, I hang around death quite a bit. The ICU, grief counselor, I did a stint as a fireman, I tried to get on board with the paramedics, but like I said, I'm not omnipotent. They turned me down." He nodded. "And, yeah, liaison to your late boss. In case you thought it was a secret: lots of people die at Wolfram and Hart."

"So, you're like, the Angel of Death?" Logan was starting to get worried now. Michael had been eating with his family: his wife, his daughter.

Michael shook his head. "No. I'm not the grim reaper or anything. It's not like if I touch you, you die or anything..."

"But you cured Niki," Logan pointed out, crossing his arms and shifting in his seat. "What was that about?"

"It wasn't her time," Michael said cryptically. "I said I'm not omnipotent, I didn't say I was impotent." He took a breath, seeing the other man's skeptical expression. "You're worried because someone powerful who hangs around death has been hanging around your family. I'm telling you I'm not that kind of angel. I was sent to you. But I was sent to you as a gift."

This threw Logan completely for a loop. "Cliff is sending me presents now? I don't even know him!"

Michael nodded. "Then just accept the gift gracefully."

Logan sighed heavily, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. The headache from that morning was back. "I need some time to digest this," he said at last. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

Michael shrugged. "In the afternoons I have a shift at the ICU, but I can leave you the number..."

Logan shook his head. "No, that's okay. I have a feeling I'll find you if I need you."

Michael grinned. "Now you're getting it." He stood and so did Logan. They shook hands and Logan turned to go. "Oh, and Logan," the lawyer turned and the angel smiled at him, "you'd look good in white."

Logan smiled uncertainly and left the guidance office. As he walked back down the halls of the junior highschool, he passed the main office. On an impulse, he turned on his heel and entered the reception area. Standing at the desk, he caught the attention of the secretary there.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "Could you tell me what classroom Hanna Kilpatrick is in? I'm her father and I just want to drop in and say hello."

The secretary nodded and clacked over the keys of her keyboard. The glowing green list of names on her computer screen scrolled down until one name was highlighted. The secretary turned to him with an unfriendly expression.

"This says she's absent this afternoon," the secretary said evenly. "She apparently had a note signed by you and left this morning."

Logan stood with his feet frozen to the floor. His mouth was dry. It took a very long moment for the information to finally settle in, it was so impossible. What?

--

Whoever Crowley was, he was listed and this was his address. Niki rapped on the door and stood casually before the peephole where no doubt this Crowley person was watching her. There was a long, deliberate silence on the other side of the door before the sound of locks could be heard.

Finally, the door opened and a middle aged man stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Can I help you?" he asked, betraying his British accent and nearly concealing the worry in his voice.

Niki frowned. She had assumed Crowley would be waiting for her... or at least recognize her. Maybe Whistler had finally lost it. Assuming he ever had it.

"Uh... I was told to come see you..." Niki craned her neck to see past the man. "My name is Niki."

Crowley sighed. Finally, he stood aside. "Yes... Yes, I know who you are." Niki walked past him into the large apartment. She looked around in awe. Whoever this Crowley was, he certainly liked his weapons. The walls were adorned with medieval tools of killing and idols of various deities.

"How do you know me?" Niki asked absently, stopping by the back wall to examine a very interesting looking saber.

The man sounded very reluctant to answer her. "I was once involved with the Council of Watchers..."

Without an instant's hesitation, Niki pulled the sword from the wall and held it to the older man's throat. He slowly raised his hands into the air and began to back away from her, but she advanced just as readily.

"I haven't been involved with them for some time," he said tiredly, looking as though he would very much like to put his hands down. "You see, Niki, I was once the Watcher to another Slayer..." She lowered the sword just enough for the older man to drop his hands and sink into the deep cushions of a large sofa. "Another slayer named Nikki. When she died, I..." He averted his gaze and shook his head. "I couldn't be a part of that anymore."

"I had my Watcher killed," Niki said simply, lowering the sword until its point rested on the floor.

Crowley glanced up. "Do you know why you were sent to me?"

Niki drew in a dejected breath. "Probably because things... kinda suck right now. Whistler's all about me getting guidance."

Crowley nodded gravely. "Then I know just what to do. Stay here, I'll be right back." He stood and hurried out of the room. As he did so, Niki quickly raised the sword, readying herself should he reenter with a crossbow or bigger sword. He wouldn't be so foolish... Then again, she didn't know him at all.

A few minutes later, the Brit returned with a large leather bag, setting it down with a clunk on the low table by the sofa. Niki watched as he reached into it and retrieved a large book. He flipped past some things and read down the page until he found what he was looking for. "Here it is." He glanced up and narrowed his gaze, as if sizing the Slayer up. "But it won't be easy."

--

Logan slowed his little brown car outside Matt's house, letting the engine idle. He looked long and hard at the front of the house, weighing whether or not to attempt it. Then he saw movement within.

With careful, precise and controlled movements, he turned off the ignition, opened his door and walked to the big bay window at the front of the house. What was moving inside was clear now.

As Logan watched what transpired within, his eyes began to glow and the grass beneath his feet turned to ice.

--

Niki sat in a circle of sand on the hardwood of Crowley's apartment living room. Crowley was chanting something from the book and Niki was feeling very sleepy all of a sudden. The lights seemed uncertain whether they were supposed to be on or off and they faded in and out of the Slayer's awareness.

Each time her eyelids dropped, the usual darkness was replaced with a hot biting wind and dryness. Bright glare off of sand and a deep pounding of tribal drums. She could barely even sit up straight any more, at the center of the circle.

Then her eyes opened fully for an instant. Only an instant. Standing mere feet away, as real as the hardwood beneath her was the very last person she ever expected to see again.

Richard J. Addison was frowning, as he often did, and his arms were crossed. He looked from the stunned Slayer, assuming she couldn't see him, to the man chanting behind her. "Are you sure this will work?" he demanded authoritatively.

Niki's hand shot out of the circle as her eyes drooped one last time. She grabbed the front of his pant leg and pulled. The surprised Brit toppled forward into the circle with her as the hardwood dissolved to hot sand and the apartment around them faded to azure sky.

Niki stood next to her former Watcher in an ancient African desert, looking around, unsure about anything anymore. Then the demon attacked.

--

Second Chances - Act 3

Niki stared out at the bleak desert. Not the picturesque dunes and oases, but dusty ground and massive stone outcrops as far as the eye could see. The sun was beating down from a stunning blue sky and a wash of heat made Niki for once want to remove her thick leather jacket.

"Oh... bloody hell." Addison slowly backed away from the behemoth which advanced on them. Niki turned at his words but her gaze landed on the Watcher, not on the creature which had him in its sights.

"You!" She took him by the shoulder and decked him, sending him sprawling back to land on his backside in the sand. "What the fuck are you doing here!? I had you killed!" She paused, her anger stepping down a notch. "You're not, like, a figment of my imagination or something, are you?"

Addison was shaking his head rapidly, his gaze locked on the thing which was advancing on the Slayer from behind. He reached out and pointed at it, making the Slayer scowl.

"What?" she said, annoyed, turning around. "Whoa... Uh..." She ducked as the massive thing tried to grab her in a bear hug. Crouched low, she spun around behind it and stood, kicking the back of its leg. It didn't seem to notice.

It did notice Addison, however. With a blood-curdling, primal roar, it opened its enormous maw and charged. Addison scrambled to his feet and prepared for the attack, ducking the first swing of the arm but catching another blow square in the chest. His breath was forced from him and he flew backward several yards.

Niki sped towards the action, leaping onto the ancient demon's back. As soon as she touched it with her bare hands, she grew dizzy, her head filled with the pounding of drums and the smell of death and rot. The rancid taste of the demon permeated her being. With a grunt, it elbowed her in the stomach and threw her off.

Turning now to her, it opened its massive mouth again, large enough to swallow a person's head whole. Curved teeth seemed to spring out of the flesh of the inside of its mouth, growing and shrinking, twisting and rattling. Niki felt sick.

With a terrifying animal roar it charged her, its arms spread wide to embrace her. The dust kicked up from its hind legs drifted in a hot and dry cloud which stung the Slayer's eyes. The pounding of the creature's paws seemed to reverberate through the very Earth, echoing from every rock surface, channeled through every rock outcrop. The sky itself seemed to tremble.

Unable to think what else to do, Niki shrugged off her leather jacket and held it by the arms behind her back. In a heartbeat the behemoth emerged from the cloud of dust it had created and was on her.

Jumping as high into the air as she could, Niki did a flip in midair and landed again on its back, the jacket she held now covering its face and pulling back its head. The Slayer held the arms of her jacket like the reins of a horse, pulling as hard as she could while forcing her knees into the creature's back.

With a roar the thing went over backwards, taken off balance and blind. It landed hard an instant after Niki had jumped clear. With a vicious kick, Niki struck the demon's head still hidden beneath the leather of her jacket. She kicked it again and again as the massive thing tried to get up again. Finally she heard the snap of a powerful spine and the shape beneath the leather twisted at an odd angle. The arms and legs stopped moving.

Breathing hard and unable to rid her mouth of the rancid taste she had acquired upon contact with the foul thing, Niki gave the creature one final kick for good measure before turning back to where Addison now stood.

"You brought me out here to kill me?" she asked icily, walking towards him in a menacing fashion.

Addison held his hands up defensively. "It's not what you think, it wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Niki continued moving forward as Addison began to move backwards. "No? I wasn't supposed to drag you along with me? I wasn't supposed to kill the demon?"

"You weren't supposed to live this long," the old Watcher blurted continuing to back up as he words halted Niki in her tracks.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she asked coldly. "You thought you could kill me in prison? I thought you just didn't want a conviction." She shrugged. "Hello: not convicted."

"It has nothing to do with me," Addison said quickly, feeling the coolness of shadow as he backed into a wide cleft in the cliff behind him. "The Council's sources... a coven of witches in England... they predicted your death: they predicted the calling of another Slayer."

Niki glared. "Well, excuse me for breathing." She began to advance on him again, walking more quickly now. "And pardon me if I don't believe a single word that comes out of your fucking mouth. I think since you tried to kill me we may have developed some trust issues."

Addison found his back up against the rock wall. He swallowed as Niki approached. "And you tried to have me killed. I believe we're even." The Slayer said nothing. "If you believe nothing else, know that I fought for you. When I went to England and they told me what the coven had foreseen, I fought for you. Eventually... I was overruled."

"Then... what? You just volunteered to kill me yourself?" She scoffed. "I don't think so."

Addison dropped his gaze to the barren and dusty ground. "I couldn't bear to think of anyone else doing it. Your death is not something I could just stand by and let happen."

Niki glared hard into the old man's face. The man who had been like a father in all the ways that didn't matter. The man, she now knew, who had killed her real father and mother. This was not forgivable.

"The first thing you ever said to me was a lie," she said in a cold whisper, her face mere inches from his. "The first thing you ever did to me was betray me. You killed my parents because they didn't want their daughter in the middle of the battle between good and evil." With her lips almost close enough to touch his, she looked across the short distance between them, looking for his soul. "You're the greatest evil I have ever known."

Without another word, she turned from him and walked off into the desert.

--

Logan's eyes glowed yellow and sweat beaded off his forehead. His fists felt like they were on fire as they trembled at his sides. His toes were numb from cold and his boots were like blocks of ice. The patch of lawn he stood on was white with frost, even in the warm afternoon sunshine.

Through the bay window, he could see Matt and Hanna in the living room, seated in a circle drawn in red on the white carpet. Matt was saying something and using his finger to paint red marks on Hanna's face. As Logan watched, he saw the teen dip his hand back into a bowl of blood and drawn similar marks on his own face. He blinked as he got some in his eye and Logan saw Hanna laugh.

With an ear-splitting clap of thunder, Logan brought his hands together and in a flash of light he was gone. He reappeared in the living room, glaring down at the two surprised and terrified teenagers. He said nothing, but they jumped to their feet, realizing how they looked.

Matt looked quickly from his girlfriend to her father, reaching out a hand to take hers. With a grunt, an invisible force sent him flying back against the far wall, pinning him with his feet above the floor. After a moment, he was dropped to the carpet.

"Dad, stop it!" Hanna shouted, grabbing Logan's arm as he reached out to throw Matt again. "Leave him alone!"

Logan turned on her, his eyes burning like coals. "What's that all over your face? Blood?" he yelled. He wrenched his arm from her grasp and she collapsed to the carpet with tears in her eyes. "What were you going to do?" Logan demanded, lifting Matt into the air with an invisible hand. "Sacrifice her to some demon?"

"We... were just having some fun," the boy gasped, finding it difficult to breathe. "I... wouldn't..."

"Shut up," Logan ordered, throwing the teen back into the wall again, this time putting a dent in the drywall. Matt collapsed to the carpet, breathing heavily. With a wicked glare, he looked up at the angry conjurer standing in his living room.

"Halfrek," the boy called, a hint of vengeance in his voice and a vindictive grin appearing on his face.

Logan's glowing eyes shifted from the injured teenager to a swirl of smoke. A woman with a self satisfied smile appeared, looking immediately to Matt who was getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

"Aw, lemon drops, are you okay?" She stepped towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Hanna got to her feet with a betrayed look on her face. "Matt... Who is this... person?"

Matt turned from Hallie to speak to Logan. His confident grin surfaced again. "This is my mother," he challenged. "A vengeance demon." Hanna gasped and took a step behind her father. Matt smirked as he stood tall before Logan. "And she's going to kick your ass."

--

Niki walked for hours, the sun dropping lower and lower behind her. She knew Addison was following her, but couldn't bring herself to turn around. She didn't know where she was heading, but something in her mind urged her on.

Soon the sun was gone and Niki was walking towards a blazing curtain of stars. The beat of ancient drums had started so low she couldn't be sure she was really hearing it, but now it was clear and it was driving her on. It slowly began to quicken, pounding through her veins as if it were overriding her own heartbeat. Her pace quickened towards the dark horizon and soon she was running as fast as she could, racing with the beat of the drums, thinking of nothing else.

Then, like a nightmare, something vast and black rose up before her. She skidded to a halt before the cliff wall, reaching out with a tentative hand to touch its cool surface. It certainly was real. She blinked. The drums had stopped.

You have come.

Niki spun around and clenched her fists. Three silhouettes stood against the starry backdrop of the primeval sky. Each was cloaked and each carried a staff.

We have waited.

Their words were not English, but Niki understood them nonetheless. The language sounded old and well used. There was a cold wind which swept up the side of the cliff, making Niki shiver. She regretted leaving her jacket with the demon.

"Who are you?" she asked, hugging her arms tight across her stomach. "How can I understand you?"

You have brought another with you, one of the silhouetted figures noted as Addison's heavy breathing and footsteps could be heard.

"Yeah..." Niki frowned as Addison approached, out of breath from trying to keep up with the Slayer. "He was my Watcher."

We know who he is.

Niki sighed, impatiently. "Now, if I only knew who you were, then we could all be friends."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Addison panted, doubling over to catch his breath again. He addressed the three men clad in shadow. "I didn't have a choice: she pulled me in."

It is as we intended, the first man said calmly. We have been here since the beginning. We have brought you both here because you destiny is in jeopardy.

Niki turned from the shadow men to the Watcher. "Who the hell are these guys?" she demanded, crossing her arms tighter. Addison stood up straighter and took a deep breath.

"They are the progenitors, original Watchers," he began, looking from one shadow man to the other.

Niki scoffed. "So they're going to try to kill me too?" She uncrossed her arms and raised her fists as if boxing. "Come on, I can take all three of you."

You have stood in judgment before the ones who watch you.

Niki lowered her fists, taking a hesitant step back towards the cliff face. As one, the shadow men lifted their staffs and beat them on the ground, the sound of ancient drums issuing from the rock. They advanced on Niki, the drumming continuing.

It is not for those men to judge you, the first of the shadow men stated, stepped closer than the others.

That task is left to us.

--

Second Chances - Act 4

Niki looked around. They weren't outside anymore. Niki was sitting on the stone floor of a dimly lit cave. Addison was standing in the shadows and the three men in robes were holding their staffs in the air and chanting in low voices.

As Niki stood, they brought their staffs down to the ground with a resounding boom. "What the hell is this?" As she spoke, shapes began to form on the cave walls. The shapes grew and shrank, glowing white. "Addison, what's going on?"

"It's Tamasheq," he said quietly, watching the ancient words form and disappear. "The language of the Tuareg," he indicated the three robed men. A large symbol, two circles with a horizontal bar dividing them, passed over Addison's head, illuminating him with its glow.

"And it's glowing and... moving on the walls because why?" Niki watched warily as the words began to move around and over every surface of the walls, the uneven ceiling and the floor. Looking down, she backed up several paces when one of the letters traveling across the floor began to work its way up her leg.

"It's the evidence," Addison said, letting a small glowing 't' slide up his chest and over his shoulder. "It's the story of your life: You are being judged."

Niki hopped away from an odd 'Y' shaped letter as it sped past her. The letters were moving faster now, turning on themselves and intersecting. "But I've already been judged," the Slayer protested. "I got a mistrial, remember?" Her eyes found a figure on the wall which she was sure didn't belong. It was clearly a five. "Besides, I seem to have left my lawyer back in reality."

"No one back in reality is qualified to judge you," her old Watcher's voice was certain and serene. "The Council wasn't qualified. Justice for the Chosen goes beyond manmade rules or morals."

Niki couldn't keep her eyes off the five on the wall. "That's nice to know," she said distantly. "I'll use that next time I get a parking ticket." As she stared at it, the five broke apart and the glowing bits reassembled into rows and columns of numbers amid the Tamasheq letters. A chill went down Niki's spine.

"You are being judged by those who have created you," the lead shadow man announced, lifting his staff and drumming it once against the stone floor. The writing on the walls immediately ceased moving.

"We will examine your legacy and determine your merit." The second shadow man touched his staff to the floor with a boom and most of the glowing letters disappeared. The room was now quite dark.

"Hey, cool. Clap-on, clap-off." Niki looked around at the remaining letters. Her little smile fell when she realized the remaining words were in English. She hadn't noticed them among the geometric shapes of Tamasheq. "What the hell is..."

The words were names, some of which she recognized, some she didn't. Derek Stills. Megan Brandon. William Mason. Shannon Forster. Samuel Tythe. Richard Forster. Niki walked slowly through the cave, reading the names in her head. Megan Brandon she knew... well... she knew of. Were these supposed to be names of people she'd killed? Eric Quinlan. Veronica Hall. Tawnie Fischer. Hugh Williamson.

"I didn't kill Eric Quinlan," she turned on the shadow men, her voice defensive. She realized, with the number of other names on the walls it was really quite irrelevant. "A demon killed him."

The shadow men were silent and she finally turned and continued reading. In a heartbeat she turned back defiantly. "I've never heard of most of these people! Who's Hugh Williamson?"

The three men in robes turned to the far wall and rows and columns of glowing blue numbers appeared. The smell of paint fumes and car exhaust filled Niki's nostrils.

Blue, blue, they're all blue... the prophet's voice echoed throughout the cave.

Oh, him. The Slayer frowned. She hadn't killed him... not exactly. With a sigh, Niki turned back to the names, reading them through, mouthing the names silently.

Rachel Kilpatrick. Hanna Kilpatrick.

This time Niki spun around with an angry shout. "What the fuck are you playing at?" she demanded, storming to the leader of the three men and grabbing him by the robe. "What do they have to do with this?"

"They are written on your life, it is as you see it." The robed man allowed Niki to clutch the cloth, lifting his staff and touching the ground with a boom. Instantly the lights went out.

--

Halfrek brushed a strand of curly hair from her cheek. "Everyone in the Order has heard about you," she strode towards Logan, looking him up and down. "Do you ruin a lot of shoes like that?"

Logan looked down and noticed his frosted boots. "You're Halfrek," he said, more as a statement of fact than a question. "The vengeance demon." She nodded cheerily.

"Yup– though we prefer the term Justice Demon, and I'm surprise you haven't heard of us. We've been so busy in this little corner of creation recently that I've just stuck around," she turned back to Matt, "taking care of this little guy."

Hanna looked with confusion and disbelief from Halfrek to Matt. "You were raised by a demon? You never told me..."

Logan slowly backed away from Hallie, leading Hanna farther from the danger. "I told you he was dangerous. I didn't want you to get hurt."

Hanna looked back to Matt and his pleased grin. Her look pleaded with him to explain this all away — explain that it wasn't what it looked like. "But... but she wouldn't hurt anyone, would she Matt?"

Matt sneered, his complete attention locked on Logan who was backing towards the kitchen, concealing Hanna with his body. "Oh, she'll hurt. She can do things to men I can't spell."

Hanna was breathing fast. Bravely, she stepped between Logan and the advancing Halfrek. "Tell her to back off," the girl said angrily, her defiant eyes on her boyfriend.

Matt was silent, his grin faltering. Before he could say anything, Logan pulled Hanna out of the way and blasted Halfrek in the chest with a ball of energy. The demon went flying across the room and landed near the dent in the drywall Matt had made.

Matt rushed to her side to help her up, but she shrugged off his help, standing and charging with a shriek. As she ran, her human face melted to the hideous likeness of a true demon. Logan felt the electricity filling him. Bring it on.

--

Niki blinked in the darkness and a low chanting seemed to rise and fall through her senses. The deep, tribal drum beat rose and fell with it. Slowly, her eyes became accustomed to the diminished light and she sat up from where she had been laying.

"You have been judged," one of the men's voices declared. The pounding of the drum stopped and Niki felt arms helping her to her feet. Blinking, she saw it was Addison and he was looking neither afraid of her, nor completely at ease.

"They have examined your legacy – your life as the Slayer... they're going to give you a choice." The old Brit brushed the dust from Niki's dirty white shirt. He took in a breath as if he wasn't too pleased with the choice at hand.

Niki looked from him to the darkness. "What's the choice?"

"You have disturbed much." The voice of the shadow men came from pure darkness now. "You have killed many whose lives it was not your destiny to end. But since the end which is near is unavoidable, we will let these things pass if you wish. You may return unchanged.

The Slayer shrugged, pulled away from Addison and brushed the rest of the dust off herself. "Or?" She demanded, stepping into the darkness but finding nothing. "I didn't come here so that nothing could change. What's my other option?"

There was silence from the shadow for a long moment. The darkness was suddenly split by the light from three glowing Tamasheq letters. Niki couldn't read them, but she guessed they were her other option.

"If it is your wish, we have the power to remove that which you were given." The letters on the wall ahead burned brighter.

"What does that mean?" Niki turned to Addison. "What did they give me?"

The old Watcher sighed heavily. This was the part he wasn't satisfied with. "These men weren't only the first Watchers; they created the first Slayer. They gave her the heart of the demon which made her strong enough to fight evil. The same power which was given to you."

Niki's eyes widened. "You mean... they can unchoose me? They can do that?"

"We offer this only as a measure to prevent disaster. If we perform–" the word they used, Niki didn't recognize, but the letters on the wall glowed brighter, "–then you will no longer be the Chosen One. Another will be chosen."

The Slayer slowly turned from the glowing word to her old Watcher, as if she still relied on him for advice. As if she had ever relied on him for advice. "I'd go back to being just a regular girl. No freak stuff, no demon magnet stuff... the Council would leave me alone?"

Addison very slowly nodded his head. "I fear we have been mistaken all along. It was not our duty to terminate the Slayer: it was this choice that was foreseen by the coven."

"Why would you give me this choice?" Niki asked, turning back and addressing the glowing word. "Is there something that I'm supposed to do... something the Slayer is supposed to do that you're afraid I'll screw up?"

"We will remove your power," the shadow man said decisively. The pounding of the ancient drums started up again, louder than before and the word on the wall seemed to hiss with its increased brightness.

"No, wait," Addison stepped forward and held out a hand to block whatever might be coming. "Give her a chance to decide." He turned quickly back to Niki who was tensing, readying herself for a fight. "I know you have no reason to trust me... I haven't given you any. It's not as though I don't know I've been an ass, but if all I've accomplished as a Watcher is to make you wish you had never been chosen, then I've failed more than you have."

Glancing quickly behind him at the glowing word, he turned back and touched her elbow as she lowered her fists. "Don't underestimate the good you can do, even at your worst. Don't let your hatred for me make this decision for you. Consider all the good you've done and the loss to this world if you were to abandon it. There are those, always, who have faith in you, even if you can't have faith in yourself."

"Niki..." he took her by the shoulders with a gentle grip. "Knicks, I fought for you before the Council — not just because I wanted to save your life, but because I know you're not a failure." He shook her gently as the pounding of the drums rose and nearly drowned his words. "You have a destiny and it's not to toil meaninglessly, drifting from addiction to addiction. You are better, and you deserve another chance."

The Watcher quickly turned back to the glowing word as three silhouetted figures stepped out of the shadow in front of it, their staffs pounding the ground.

"Let her choose," Addison said, his voice hard and authoritative. It was not a request. The three shadow men raised their staffs and brought them to the Earth one last time with a resounding boom.

"Very well. What is her choice?"

--

Halfrek hit Logan hard in the gut then backhanded him and sent him staggering backwards to the wall. Touching a hand to his bleeding mouth, he pulled his other hand back and felt the crackle of electricity.

Hanna dashed past them to where Matt was standing, grinning at each blow his foster mother made. She grabbed him by the arm and glared. His grin wavered.

"Tell them to stop it," she ordered, her hands on her hips. "Tell her to leave."

Matt shrugged. "Your dad started it. Hallie's just teaching him not to threaten me."

"I don't care," Hanna answered angrily. "Tell her to leave. Do it or I won't come around anymore."

This got Matt's attention and he seemed to consider it, looking down at the carpet. "You don't want to hang out anymore?"

"I don't want my dad to get hurt," she replied, her eyes moving back to the fight in progress, bolts of energy answering forceful punches. The teenagers ducked as a lamp flew past them.

"Tell your dad to stop and I'll tell Hallie to back off..." They were thrown to the floor as the bay window exploded inward, showering them with bits of glass. Hallie groaned and pulled herself from the floor. Matt looked very concerned, but he hesitated to go to her when she was in demonic form. "You'd better hurry," the teen added to his girlfriend. "You don't want to see Halfrek when she gets angry."

"Dad," Hanna said without hesitation, "can we just go? I don't like this."

Logan brought his hands together, as if molding something. A bright blue flame sprang up between his palms. "I think this has gone beyond the two of you," the conjurer advised as Halfrek and Logan circled each other in the wrecked living room. "This woman is a demon. I kill demons."

Matt looked quickly from Logan to Hanna. He was getting worried. "You– you don't have to kill her. Hallie, back off, let him go. This has gone far enough."

Halfrek shook her head with a toothy grin, never taking her eyes from the conjurer as they circled each other. "Sorry, sweety pie, this one's been on D'Hoffryn's list for quite some time."

"Hear that?" Logan glanced sidelong at his daughter. "I don't have a choice."

"Dad, come on, just flash us out of here..." Hanna's voice was pleading, she looked from Matt to Halfrek. She could see Matt was really worried, he was breathing fast and he was shifting anxiously from one foot to another.

"Mr. Kilpatrick, please—" Matt took several steps forward, trying to get between the warring parents. "I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry... I- just... please don't hurt her."

Halfrek laughed as if that were the funniest joke she had ever heard. In an instant, the blue flame shot from Logan's hand and enveloped her. She screamed in pain as an invisible force threw her out the broken bay window. She landed on the grass, writhing as the flames seemed to consume her.

"Hallie!" the boy jumped out the window and tried to help his foster mother, but the flames were too hot. "I'm going to wish," Matt threatened. But his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper.

Logan stepped over the edge of the window and looked down at the burning mass. He knew she was still alive, probably buying time or trying to lull him into a false sense of security. That would end, though.

"Time to end this," the conjurer said harshly, raising his hands for a killing strike. "I'm sorry, Matt, this is just the way things have to be."

Matt's face contorted to a look of hatred. "The way things have to be?" he demanded. "I wish you knew what it was like to lose everyone you ever loved! Then you can tell me how things have to be!"

Instantly the flames went out. In a rush of smoke, Halfrek was on her feet, a sinister smile on her demonic face. "Wish grant—"

With a massive explosion, Logan launched everything he had at the demon, striking her again and again, burning her flesh and scorching himself in the process. Matt was thrown backwards and the shockwaves from the sound kept him from getting up.

After a full minute of bombardment, all that was left of Halfrek was a smoking crater in the middle of the scorched lawn.

Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, Logan turned away from what looked like the site of a small bomb going off and headed for the front door. Hanna was waiting inside, tears in her eyes. She had a small cut on her forehead where some of the glass had cut her. She ran to him and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing into his chest. He held her tight, ignoring the blistering pain in his hands. She was safe now. Everything was going to be okay.

Matt knelt by the small patch of blackened ground. His mouth hung open and he struggled for breath. As Logan and Hanna walked by, hand in hand, she answered his gaze with a glare. His eyes slowly fell. They came to rest on the amulet resting in the center of the crater. He picked it up and held it tight. A tear rolled down his cheek as the small brown car pulled away.

--

Crowley was standing well back from the circle of sand in his living room when, with a flash of white light, Niki and Addison reappeared. Crowley blinked in surprise. Addison looked... remarkably alive. He hadn't expected Niki to discover Addison, and after she had he certainly hadn't expected her old Watcher to survive the encounter. But nonetheless, there they both stood, dusty and drenched in sweat. Niki had her black leather jacket draped over one arm and was looking around quickly.

"You're back," Crowley said uncertainly, his tone loud enough to serve the purpose. "You're just in time."

Addison met Crowley's gaze and the old Watcher's eyes widened. With a shout he jumped clear of the circle and hurried away from Niki to stand by the front door. The Slayer frowned suspiciously and looked around.

From the back hall, a large, muscular man with a deep scar down his cheek strode into the living room. He carried a short sword in each hand and with his gaze glued solidly to Niki, his intent was clear.

Niki slowly looked from Crowley to Addison. The latter was shaking his head insistently. "No... It's not what you think—"

"I think he's come to kill me," Niki said, reaching for the saber on the wall. "I think that desert thing was a distraction so you could get him over here." Her sword held up defensively, Niki turned to look at her old Watcher. There was no surprise, or even anger on her face. Only the slight disappointment that comes from disillusionment. "I think I should have tried harder to kill you."

Addison shook his head. "No, it's not like that—"

Crowley cocked his head. "Did she choose..." Addison shot him a poisonous glare as the bounty hunter advanced on the girl.

Niki raised her sword. "Let's get this over with." With the clang of metal on metal, their swords met and in a superhuman burst of speed, Niki got around the massive man and drove her blade through his back and out his chest.

With a roar of pain, he fell to the floor. Niki carefully pulled the blade from the muscular corpse and leveled it at Crowley's throat. The Brit backed up until he was up against the wall. He sucked in a fearful breath as the bloodied steel just barely touched his throat.

"You," Niki said quietly, examining him patiently, "are one insidious bastard." He made a fearful noise and closed his eyes. Niki considered it. "But at least you're honest about it." In one smooth motion, she drew the sword away from his throat and launched it through the air.

With a gasp, Addison looked down at the blade projecting from his chest. It held him to the wall and kept him from breathing. All he could do was look up and watch. Niki slowly made her way across the living room, carefully stepping over the body of the bounty hunter, carefully avoiding stepping in the circle of sand.

When she finally got to him, her eyes were calm and her voice was soft. Addison struggled for breath – struggled for speech. His lungs were quickly filling with blood. He could taste it.

"Shhh," Niki put a finger to his lips. She drew close to him, as close as the sword in his chest would allow. "It's okay," she said softly. She slowly embraced him, his struggling, sputtering breath leaving a trail of blood down his chin. "It's okay," she repeated, even softer. "I forgive you."


	12. Beyond Any Shadow of a Doubt

Author's note: If you recognize the first scene of the first act, but can't place it - don't worry, it's mine, so it's not plagiarism. It's a subtle tie-in and some funky foreshadowing. That is all.

--

Beyond Any Shadow of a Doubt - Act 1

The silence shrieked in her ears, unending, maddening, drowning in sorrow. She had done this to herself, there was only one way to solve it, to save them; to face it.

There was no sideways motion here, no escaping, no hope. Just moving forward, terror but especially sorrow pulling at her, squeezing her heart and holding her back, but she strode forward regardless. Her footsteps, sounding small and weak to her ears, marked each step; slower and more cowardly than she had intended. She could feel her breath in her throat, fearful and shallow; her nimble fingers trembled as she made weak fists. It was somewhere ahead. Somewhere at the end of the long corridor.

The dim light from each doorway cast alternating patterns of light and dark across her path. She shuddered, again seeing its eyes as she looked down at it, in unrestrained anguish and pleading.

"Save me" it had begged, she had begged. But fear had overridden her then, she had given in to it; she had run. She had sent the thing she loved to a hell worse than any conceivable. Now it was back. No. Now she was back, killing, laughing, knowing she would come for her. And so she did.

Hanna walked down the hallway, towards her fear. The walk stretched time into forever. Her building terror, her quivering breath and clammy palms the only indication she was approaching her destination. She had tried to come to terms with her own death; that nauseatingly unnatural conclusion which gnawed at her insides with each step. In the stale, cold air of this ungodly corridor, she had tried to rationalize it to herself. This was her fault, and if she died - no, when she died, she might be able to stand the thought of herself again.

It was only her body which she had failed to convince. As far as it was concerned, she should be running as hard and fast away from this place as possible, or at the very least finding a high place from which to fling herself. But not this. Anything but this– this living hell of indescribable agony to which she was headed.

Before her body could quite find the motive to end itself then and there, she had arrived. The bleak white door opened without a sound and the light of a bloody sunset illuminated the room in shades of scarlet and sickly orange.

The still figure standing by the window said nothing as Hanna approached, her stomach quivering, no longer breathing at all. She gripped the hem of her shirt to keep her hands from trembling.

This was the epitome of horror. With a now furiously trembling hand, she reached out, a slight whimper escaping her. Before she could touch the shoulder, the figure turned, its mutilated, bloodied face the parody-maker of all death Hanna had ever imagined.

"Daughter," the corpse of Rachel mouthed.

Hanna awoke covered in cold sweat, breathing hard in the darkness. She could not recall any nightmare more terrifying. She gripped the edge of the covers, her knuckles white. With wide eyes she stared into the darkness, for several seconds after awakening fearing she would see a figure standing at the end of her bed.

But no one was there.

--

Logan kissed two fingers and touched Hanna's forehead before she hurried out the door, looking a little more tired this morning than usual — then again, she had just found out her boyfriend was raised by an evil demon. Ex-boyfriend.

"Bye, honey," he called after her as the door closed. With a satisfied smile, he tossed the folded newspaper in the bin by the door and reached for his khaki jacket. Old Reliable. Logan's jacket hadn't had nearly the ride Niki's leather jacket had, but it had endured a lot and Logan loved it. He draped it over his forearm and started out the door, glancing back to the kitchen and the brooding Rachel with her coffee. Logan's satisfied smile disappeared. Bye, honey he mouthed.

Logan loved the feeling of heading off to work. A week ago he had succeeded in finding a firm that would take him. He was back on track. And back in an office. But what a commute.

Closing the door behind him, Logan started across the lawn for the car. Like his jacket, the little brown car had endured a lot. Half of the parts on it were being held together by mystical forces Logan couldn't even spell. Isis was holding the tailpipe on... By Zeus, he had unclogged the fuel lines last week.

As he got in, his eyes glanced into the rearview mirror and he paused. There was a man, sitting in a car which was idling on the curb across the street. Logan couldn't really see the man, or the make of the car, but the fact that the man was looking intently at Logan caught his attention.

With a troubled frown, Logan shut the driver's door and started the car, backing out of the driveway he kept looking in the mirror, but he was at the turn before he could see anything definitive. About twenty minutes down Sunrise Highway, he thought to look behind him again, but with the morning traffic, he couldn't tell if he was being followed.

This small thing distracted Logan for the rest of the day. On its own, Logan wouldn't worry about an incident of someone following him. He could handle himself. He was confident that the protection spell he had placed on Rachel's wedding ring would protect her if the stalker was demonic or magical, but he was worried should Wolfram and Hart have sent a human thug to threaten her.

But that didn't line up. The letter Logan had found indicated that Fischer was trying to drive a wedge between them. A direct attack on Rachel would only bring her and Logan together... Logan's eyes widened. Unless the stalker wasn't from Wolfram and Hart.

If Rachel was having Logan followed... He swallowed his anger and dismissed it. It didn't matter. Logan wasn't involved in anything illicit anymore. He was clean. Let her investigate him.

And then there was Michael. The not-quite-angel of death. Sent for some mysterious reason to help Logan... and yet camping out at his daughter's school and his wife's hospital. Either he was being more paranoid than usual, or something was terribly wrong.

--

Niki walked into the Marionette wearing everything she owned. A stake in her pocket, life in her veins and enough money for one last drink. She slid into a seat next to a familiar face and shrugged her jacket onto the back of the chair.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world..." she grinned, lifting the fedora and pulling it snugly onto her own head. "Hey, it fits. Who'da thunk it?"

Whistler couldn't help but smile. "It's good to see you," he slid a can of nuts across the table. "Nuts?"

"A little," she admitted, then saw the can. "Oh... yeah, thanks." She munched a little and picked up the can. "Brazilian. Nice. Where you been at, Whistler? I've missed you."

The demon nodded in gratitude. "Salvador," he said simply. "...it's in Brazil," he added as she munched on the nuts. "Some trouble there that needed handling. It's a hotbed down there."

"Mmm," the Slayer nodded. "And now you're back in this old hotbed."

Whistler nodded. He looked a little distracted and watched her hands as she took handfuls of nuts and popped them into her mouth. "So... I heard you killed Addison," he said at last, as if to break the one-sided awkward silence.

Niki stopped mid-chew. "Oh. Yeah... right after the party – right after you left." She frowned. "And then again a couple of weeks ago." She shoveled another handful of nuts into her mouth. "He had it coming... both times."

Whistler was nodding. "Niki..." he lowered his gaze as she continued eating, her expression growing worried and her chewing slowing.

"...What?" She slid the can back to him. "Did you still want some?"

He looked back up and swallowed. "I'd like to talk to you... about your destiny."

The Slayer blinked. "That's funny," she said dryly, "I had always imagined that I had free choice."

Whistler closed his eyes with a sigh. "I knew this wouldn't work." He shrugged helplessly. "I can't talk to you."

"Psh," Niki dismissed. "We were talking until you used the D word."

"Fine" the demon snapped, "I want to talk to you about your death."

"Ah," she leaned back in her chair. "The other D word." The young woman looked down at her fingernails. "I didn't know I had one," she said at last.

"You do," he said sharply. "Believe me. We all do. And it would be nice to think death isn't meaningless, but you've seen enough to believe otherwise. I know I can't challenge that belief, so I won't try." He stood and reached for his hat, plucking it from her head to make her look at him. "I sent you to Crowley because he had the text of the Story. I know that you saw the Shadow Men. What did they tell you?"

Niki frowned. "Why do you care?" she demanded, tired of having to disclose everything to everyone. Tired of being judged. She had nothing anymore. No home, no money, no family, no lover, no Watcher... Why couldn't her destiny be her own?

"Because I care," he answered bluntly. "About the fight," he added after a pointed pause. There was a long silence between them as he contained his anger and set his hat beside the nuts on the table. "Because I care," he said gently, at last.

"They seemed worried about something," she admitted after a long silence. "Worried about an end that was coming. I think they weren't sure I could handle it."

The demon frowned. "Why do you say that?"

Niki took a slow deep breath, recalling her time in the cave with the creepy, ancient men. Addison had suggested that the Council had been wrong all along. That the whole time they had been trying to kill her to bring about the calling of another Slayer; it wasn't her death which was going to do it.

"They wanted to take away my power," she said thoughtfully. "They wanted to make me normal and call another girl in my place." She looked up from her contemplations and took another handful of nuts. "Anyway, I didn't go for it."

Whistler looked very resigned and he slowly dropped his gaze from the Slayer to his own hands. "It may turn out... that you made the wrong choice."

--

Kenneth looked around the airport. He knew that the Slayer in this city was notorious — infamous back in England. She killed nearly everything British that stepped off a plane, including her own Watcher. He half expected to see her waiting for him with a sign and a sword. He smiled nonetheless. It wasn't exactly polite to smile at the peril faced by the assassins of the Council, but then, he never really like the Council, or its policies on the Termination Procedures. He agreed the termination of a rogue Slayer was sometimes necessary, considering the fate of the world was often dropped in her lap and she needed to be someone who could handle it.

And that was why Kenneth was disembarking in New York City. He hoped he need never meet the infamous Niki Valtaine in person, but he was prepared just in case. He had the original weapon intended for the Termination Procedure in his suitcase. Customs had let it through – it wasn't really dangerous to anyone but her, and he would only use it as a last resort. He preferred not to be involved in that messy business.

He was all about the future. And the future called from right here in New York.

--

Beyond Any Shadow of a Doubt - Act 2

"What do you mean, I made the wrong choice?" Niki paused in her protein intake. The waitress walked by and set down two fresh mugs of beer. Niki glanced up, then back at the Demon, leaning in and lowering her voice. "I went to see your prophet," she hissed, dragging the beer closer to her protectively, "and he told me exactly how much time I have left." She straightened up and lifted the mug. "You're just like the rest of them. I'm the Slayer. The one and only: Get over it."

As the Slayer, the one and only, took a long pull of her beer, Whistler tried to think of how to explain this. The young woman across from him had fought tooth and nail just for the right to be herself — to be alive. She knew no one accepted her, everyone thought she was a failure or dangerous... how to convince her she was exactly what she was meant to be... and that what she was meant to be was dead.

"The Deceivers," he said all of a sudden. "How's that going?"

Niki wiped the foam from her lips with the back of her hand and reached for the nuts again. "It's hard to tell, really. That seer, Jessica, explained what the Deceivers are but not who they are or how to find them."

"How to kill them...?" the demon prompted.

The Slayer nodded. "Yeah, I have to kill the one who conjured the Deception. But, of course, I have no idea who that is."

"Is that why you went to the prophet?" Whistler took a few nuts for himself.

Niki nodded emphatically through a sip of beer. "Yup. Turns out he was crazy though. Everything was numbers... the lives of all the Slayers were a big set of numbers that I couldn't really understand. Except for a few. Like when I'm going to die."

Whistler smiled a little. "So, I figure that's why you're not too concerned with... anything." He indicated her homeless and penniless state.

She shrugged. "Pretty much. He gave me a time for the Deception to end too..." she frowned. "Or a clue or something. That number was a bit fuzzy."

"Which number?" Whistler munched curiously on the quickly dwindling Brazil-nuts.

"Five," she shrugged. "Two and three is five, the guy said. Whatever that means. Did I mention he was crazy?"

"Are you looking for the Deceiver?" Whistler's words struck a chord and Niki slumped. "I take that as a no."

"No, it's not that," she set the beer mug down dejectedly. "I just... I'd been hoping it was Addison. You know, I thought —I hoped— he'd been the one who was having me deceived. To get rid of me." Whistler was shaking his head. Niki nodded – it could never be that easy. "But I guess not."

"You're looking at this all wrong," Whistler gestured for the waitress to come over. "Two more beers," he requested politely. The waitress nodded and wandered away.

Niki frowned. "But you haven't even touched yours." The demon shrugged.

"They're both for you." He folded his hands and took a deep breath. "You're trying to think of reasons why forces are trying to get rid of the Slayer. Normally, that's a pretty effective thought process, but for right now, I'm asking you to think of why someone would want to get rid of you, Niki Valtaine."

The Slayer shrugged helplessly. "I'm not exactly a threat to anyone. I can't think of anyone — besides the Council who might actually be afraid of me."

"Again, you're looking at this all wrong. I'm telling you now you are threatening: every breath you take is a threat, but not to anyone who could be doing this to you. If any person was really afraid of you, there are many easier magical ways to have you killed — just look at how the Council is dealing with you. They've initiated the Termination Procedure. They're not concerned with mucking about with the truth."

Niki looked hard into the demon's face. He had a point. "So what are you saying? Whoever's deceiving me isn't trying to kill me?"

Whistler shook his head. "No, what I'm saying is: Whoever is deceiving you isn't afraid of you. Isn't worried they'll be caught. They're sitting back and enjoying the show."

Niki's expression clouded over. "When I find them, I'm going to kick their ass so hard they'll taste their back pockets."

"But don't forget about the Council," Whistler pointed out, taking the first sip of his first beer and Niki's second and third arrived. "If they want you, they'll stop at nothing to get you."

Niki frowned, starting on her second pint. "Yeah, getting back to that... you mentioned some 'Termination Procedure'... what's that about?"

The demon exhaled hesitantly. "Well…" he looked down at his beer. This whole situation was against his nature. He was by nature one of the good guys. He was supposed to be on the winning side. The side that survived. Helping destiny along was supposed to mean saving people's lives... not this.

"Come on," Niki prodded. "You opened Pandora's Box; I just want to see what's inside."

"The Termination Procedure," the demon said reluctantly, "is one of the most carefully guarded secrets of the Watcher's Council. I assume since you went to the desert you know the nature of the Shadow Men?"

Niki frowned. "Uh, yeah. They created the first Slayer — they were the original Watchers."

Whistler nodded. "They did it by forcing the heart of a demon into a young girl. The name of that demon has been lost over the centuries, but something has been passed on from generation to generation among the Watchers: a way to vanquish the demon inside the Slayer — inside you."

Niki's eyes widened with shock and disgust. "Why would they keep something like that?" she demanded, suddenly put off of beer and nuts.

"Because," Whistler argued calmly, "there exist forces in the world which could corrupt a Slayer; turn her to evil or worse. They needed a failsafe. An emergency backup plan in case the most powerful weapon for good turned against them."

Niki slowly dropped her gaze, the full meaning finally registering. "Like me. Turned against them like me." The demon nodded. "They're going to use it against me — kill the demon inside me?"

Whistler nodded regretfully. "They're probably going to try. It's dangerous because they have to be right in front of you — the demon inside you has to hear the Word. Then..." he made a gesture like letting go of dust.

Niki glanced back up. "What's the Word?"

Whistler frowned, allowing a little laugh. "Well... I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to do their job for them."

Niki sighed. "Well... how would I recognize it? It's not English, is it?"

Whistler shook his head. "No— but you've seen it before." He pulled a napkin from the dispenser box and lifted a pen from the inside of his jacket. He scribbled the Tamasheq letters onto the white surface and slid it over to the Slayer. "It's Tuareg. It's a spell. If it's said with the right incantation, the demon inside you gets driven out."

Niki slowly lifted the napkin from the table top. She had indeed seen the word before: glowing on the wall of the cave, the Shadow Men had offered to 'unchoose' her using this word. But that didn't make sense... "It won't kill me?" she frowned.

Whistler cocked his head. "I have no idea. It's never been used before. As far as the Council knows, it could end the Slayer Line. That's why it's an absolute last resort."

"Well, I'll keep my eyes open for any more Council types who come looking for me toting books or scrolls." She folded the napkin in half and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans.

It looked like Niki was getting ready to leave, so Whistler slid her third beer towards her. "We still have to talk about the D word."

The Slayer blinked, standing from her chair. "Which one?"

"The one that rhymes with breath," the demon replied.

Niki sat back down, sullenly taking hold of her third mug of beer. "I hate that one."

--

Kenneth slowly lifted the stone tablet from the foam packing which filled his briefcase. On it was carved the Tuareg word which spelled death for the demon heart of any Slayer. It had never been used and it was hoped never to be needed, but Kenneth had been given explicit instructions should he meet the Slayer to use it without hesitation. They were that afraid of her.

The intellectual in Kenneth looked at the tablet more for its archaeological significance rather than its tactical potential. And yet, potential was his specialty.

Slowly and with the care of a student of history, he set the tablet back in the foam packing, closing the briefcase and turning to the hotel telephone. After a few moments of wrestling with the American dialing procedures, Kenneth had the coven on the line.

"Yes," he said to the cautious voice on the other end. "I'm in the city. You said you'd give me an address once I'd landed."

He listened patiently as the exact location was given, spelled out and repeated just in case. Kenneth scribbled it down on a pad of paper and stuffed the note into his vest pocket. Wouldn't she be surprised to see him...?

Apparently she had the one called Logan Kilpatrick watching over her. The Termination Procedure would do little to stop him, Kenneth smirked, except maybe confuse him for a minute or two.

"Thank you," he said to the voice on the other end, hanging up the receiver. He'd look up the place in the morning: it was getting late and prowling around a city ruled by a rogue Slayer was asking for the kind of trouble Kenneth wasn't at all prepared for.

Kenneth was all about the future. And if the coven was to be trusted, then like it or not, the future was upon them all.

--

"Could you sing me to sleep?" Hanna asked, a little hopeful gleam in her eyes. She lay under the covers in the semi-darkness of her bedroom. She wasn't a child anymore and she knew Logan knew it, but she also knew he liked to sing to her and asking him was as good as an apology.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he smiled warmly. "What do you want to hear?"

"Boxer," she said without hesitation. Logan had been singing Paul Simon to her since before she could remember and even though she doubted she would ever admit to anyone that she liked it, the few minutes before sleep with her father used to be the best of every day.

"I always sing Boxer," Logan protested, poking her in the ribs. "How about something else? For Emily, wherever I may find her." Hanna nodded dreamily and closed her eyes, sinking back into the thick pillows. It was a moment before her father's still gentle voice filled her senses, and in that darkness she couldn't help but see flashes of the nightmares which for the past few nights had haunted her. Then the song came and everything seemed like it would be okay.

"What a dream I had, pressed in organdy,

Clothed in crinoline of smoky burgundy,

Softer than the rain...

I wandered empty streets down past the shop displays,

I heard cathedral bells, tripping down the alleyways,

As I walked on...

And when you ran to me, your cheeks flushed with the night.

We walked on frosted fields of juniper and lamplight.

I held your hand...

And when I awoke and felt you warm and near,

I kissed your honey hair with my grateful tears.

Oh, I love you, girl...

Oh, I love you..."

--

With screams and terror, Hanna watched as the creatures she knew to be vampires massacred the churning crowd. But something was fighting them. Something was killing them.

As Hanna's disembodied perspective shifted, she could see a girl, a girl not much older than she, fighting the vampires — killing the vampires. With dust and screams the vampires fell before her. But they were like a tide and she was only one.

Then the dream spun sickeningly and the perspective shifted again — a different feel, a different taste and smell to the air. A different girl fighting different vampires in a different way. Again they overwhelmed her. Hanna was unable to look away as her blood spilled out onto the ground.

With a lurch, she was somewhere else, in a different time, different vampires and a new girl, fighting hard, killing many. But she too fell. They all fell. They all died.

Hanna awoke covered in sweat and breathing hard. It wasn't terrifying like the other dreams, just exhausting and it wound her up with stress so that her fists were clenching the sheets so hard she thought she might sprain something.

It was pitch black and Logan was gone. The memory of his voice brought no comfort to her now. Even that long evolved power to drive away nightmares had proved ineffective. Then with a frown she realized what had woken her up. The noise came again and she recognized it.

She moved to the window and looked down to see Matt waiting below, readying to throw another pebble at her window. Her gaze narrowed and she slowly drew the blind closed. Getting back into bed, she hardened her heart and closed her eyes. Her father may not be able to protect her from bad dreams, but he had proved he could protect her from bad boyfriends. She slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

--

Beyond Any Shadow of a Doubt - Act 3

"It was a dark and dreary night... I know that doesn't exactly bode well, but it was appropriate anyway. I was fourteen, so I guess it would have been... seventy six or seventy seven.

"We were riding the subway home because taxis were expensive... Dad got paid on Thursdays and it was Wednesday night. We would have taken the car but mom got in a fender bender the week before and it was still in the shop.

"So my arms were full of bags of new clothes and we were sitting at the back of the subway car because we didn't want anyone behind us. Dad was kinda anxious about the whole thing, I heard him say subways were dangerous places. I remember thinking it was neat.

"I was solidly in my teenage rebellion stage... this was when I was just discovering the Ramones, so rebellion just meant not wearing pink, never smiling and listening to Blue Cheer. I remember that evening mom had wanted me to get a purse, but I think I told her off — purses were for girly girls.

"So there we were in the back of the subway car, my mom exhausted from dragging me around all day, my dad worried we were going to get mugged and me not smiling on principle.

"Then this guy starts towards the back of the car — started walking towards us like he had something in mind. My dad took a step in front of us to make it clear we were off limits, but I got all brave and crossed the isle. The guy was freaky looking for a Billy Idol wannabe, even from a rebellious teenager's point of view. With one look I knew I could easily worship him. The way he walked, the way he didn't care.

"He walked right past my dad without a single glance. But I was watching this guy the whole time and when he passed me he stopped. He pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it on the seat next to me

"'Look after that for me,' he said with a kind of evil grin. I get now that he was probably some perv or something, but at the time it was the coolest thing that had ever happened.

"My dad told me not to touch the jacket and I got really annoyed, so I walked to the back door to the car where the guy had gone. By then he was in the next car and I could see through the window that there was one other person with him."

Niki slowly ran her finger around the rim of the beer mug. All the beer she had drunk that night had been courtesy of Whistler. She still had her last ten dollars deep in her pocket. She didn't know why she was telling him this story... it didn't really count as a story. Maybe it was just because it was a secret she had kept. A secret from her parents, who were dead, and from Addison, who now was also dead. She felt like she needed to tell it.

"I watched through the window as the guy and the girl he was with fought. And I don't mean they fought like yelled at each other. They were actually punching and kicking each other. I remember the guy somehow got one of the poles loose and used it like a staff.

"They fought for several minutes as I watched – I couldn't take my eyes off it, and finally he was on top of her, holding her head with his hands." Niki slowly looked up as if retelling the story had triggered a buried memory she'd never understood until now. It took her a minute or so of looking into the demon's eyes to be able to put it into words. "When he killed her... I don't know... It was like I was seeing myself. I realized I was going to die one day, you know? Instead of giving me his jacket, he could have snapped my neck.

"Throughout the whole fight, I was watching it like a movie – it was behind that barrier of non-reality that I assumed protected people from real drugs and violence and death... I had never really thought about it because it didn't seem real...

"Then he walked to the back of the car and pulled the brake line. That was when my dad noticed. He pulled me from the window and saw the girl in the other car. While he was turned away from me, I stuffed the guy's jacket into my shopping bag. When I looked back, I saw the guy pulling the dead girl's jacket from her and putting it on.

"My dad grabbed me and pulled me to the other end of our car, my mom in tow. I was kinda dazed. I'd never seen anyone killed before and I remember thinking she couldn't have been dead... not that quickly or simply: there was no poetry to it. No music." Niki laughed and drained the last of her beer. "That's what's classically called the death of innocence. Bullshit. I'm still alive—" she pulled her leather jacket from the back of the chair and laid it across the table, "and I got this out of the deal."

"Innocence for a leather jacket," Whistler mused, slowly dropping some nuts into his mouth. "You realized you were going to die and your response was to wear the clothes of a murderer. I guess everybody has to pick a side."

"So why not the stronger one?" Niki laughed. "Hey, I was fourteen. Lay off the psychobabble." She ran her hands lovingly down the leather arm. "Not that I didn't end up becoming the killer anyway."

"Somehow, I doubt the jacket is to blame." Whistler sipped his own beer. As he watched her hold her jacket, he could tell he had managed to get through to her. She had done the work for him.

"I am going to die, aren't I?" She said it with such calmness and clarity that the demon had to smile in admiration.

"Nothing is more certain than death." He slid the nearly empty can of nuts back to her. "And nothing less meaningless."

--

Logan sat very low in the driver's seat of his car. It grew late, but Logan wasn't concerned. Rachel was taking on more shifts and she was at the hospital tonight. The sun had set and the shadows were now impenetrable. As the stars began to show themselves, Logan watched. As patient and motionless as a spider waiting for its prey to cross its path. He was glad he didn't have eight legs, because the two he had were developing serious cramps.

Then a fly came to the web.

Kenneth slowed his car down as he drove down the dark street. Looking quickly down at the note he had scribbled, laying on his dashboard, he glanced back up to the house numbers. There it was.

His car slowed and stopped, the headlights blinking off and the engine growing silent. After a moment he opened his door and pulled the note from the dashboard, scribbling some details about the long and complicated route he had ended up taking to get here. In the light cast from the interior lamp of his car, he could just barely see the writing on the note.

With a frown he looked up and noticed the street lamp directly overhead was dark. He looked up ahead and saw the same thing. Back down the way he had come were more dark street lamps. He shrugged and folded the note back into his vest pocket, sliding the pen in alongside it.

He closed the door and began to cross the street, heading for the Kilpatrick household, when with a roar and a squealing of tires, a dark shape nearby came to life with a blinding light.

Kenneth held his hands in front of his face to shield his eyes from the bright headlights, but in less than a second, the spinning tires caught the pavement and the bright thing charged forward, ramming into the surprised Watcher and folding him in half over the hood. The sudden breaking sent the man flying onto the pavement where he lay twisted and bleeding.

After a moment, the car door opened and Logan stepped out, walked carefully up to the body, looking down at it with a dispassionate stare. So this was the man investigating him... He seemed too old for this kind of a risky business.

Logan followed the ambulance all the way to the hospital, as a concerned motorist might. He had called 9-1-1 himself when he realized the man really was critically injured. He was rehearsing the story he would tell the police when something occurred to him. A smile slid across his face, more clever than any before it.

Waiting in the lounge chairs outside the ER, Logan gave his police statement, glancing in occasionally to see the poor man's status. Soon a nurse bustled out and informed him the man he had accidentally hit was going to live, but he'd be spending the next few days in the intensive care unit. Logan nodded with concern until the cop and the nurse turned to go. After, he continued nodding, making his way behind the gurney to the elevator where he had to wait to follow them to the ICU.

So it was that he missed Rachel's initial reaction to seeing the man bleeding and broken. No matter. He would find out soon enough. Unlike Logan, Rachel was a very poor liar.

--

Kenneth looked up through swollen eyelids and painkillers to see the worried face of a man whose face had been described in detail by several members of the Council. This must be Logan Kilpatrick. All of this must be Logan Kilpatrick.

"Who are you?" the man looking down at him asked. "My wife has never seen you before. Neither have I. Who are you?"

Kenneth knew he couldn't speak while intubated, so he blinked to indicate he understood what was being said. His muscles suddenly tensed and in his periphery he could hear the bleeps and various sounds coming from his machinery speed up: something entirely out of the ordinary was happening.

As Kenneth looked up at Logan Kilpatrick, he could hear the man's voice in his head – see the man's emotions, feel his curiosity. Who are you, the voice in his head asked.

Kenneth tried to speak with his mind, but before he could even focus his bleary thoughts enough to do so, an image flashed from his mind so vivid he had to blink to see again. It was an image of the Council gathered in London – a meeting they had had several weeks ago. Logan was now nodding with a frown.

Are you looking for her? Instantly an image of Niki flashed before Kenneth's eyes. The bleep, bleep of the ECG quickened. You're not looking for her? Logan seemed confused. Who are you looking for?

Kenneth tried everything in his power to think of something else. Anything else. But he could tell Logan saw through him. Are you looking for me? You've found me. Kenneth blinked. Relief washed over him and he could tell Logan was misinterpreting it.

"Does the Council need me to save them again... or do they want to kill me too?" He wasn't concerned with speaking in the Watcher's head anymore. He could read his emotions like a book, just as he had read his wife's.

With a trembling hand, Kenneth reached for the button under his right hand. He clamped down hard with his thumb and fresh morphine flooded his system. Logan and the bleeping of the ECG faded away behind a curtain of bliss.

Beyond Any Shadow of a Doubt - Act 4

Niki slowly drew her last ten dollars out of her pocket. They had at last run out of Brazil-nuts and the Slayer was still hungry. As she waited for the waitress who had been serving her beer for the past twelve hours, she ran a finger down the side of the little portrait of Alexander Hamilton. Whether it was because she was exceedingly buzzed, or because those nuts had been laced with something, Whistler's words were beginning to make sense.

For reasons she couldn't put her finger on, there was something bigger going on than just her menial little life. The prophecy she had seen wasn't just a count-down to her death, it was a masterpiece: a work of art with infinite detail describing all levels of her very existence. And her life was only a small part of her existence. Likewise, her death was only a small piece, but a necessary one nonetheless.

A few minutes later, the waitress returned with the largest bowl of mixed nuts ten dollars could buy. With a broadening smile, Niki looked down at the bountiful bowl of protein. If death was certain, then this could be the last time she ever ate.

She had to pull her leather jack from the table top in order to get the bowl close to her and as she did, her hand slipped into the jacket's pocket. Something touched her finger there she didn't expect.

The nuts momentarily forgotten, Niki drew the small piece of crisp paper from the deep pocket. It felt fragile and, unfolding it, she realized it had been accompanying her jacket on its adventures for the past two years.

Knicks, good luck with your drumming career.

Sorry your band landed on tough times:

Hang in there.

-Joey Ramone

The same little smile she had worn before the hopeless battle two years ago now spread across her face. She had forgotten she had left the note in her pocket. Now the nuts were shaking. Now the nuts were–?

The table began to shake and Niki and Whistler jumped back out of their chairs. Niki dropped the small piece of paper and, with a small explosion of tiles and plywood, the floor under their table was pushed up.

A massive head with four gleaming eyes and a wide fang-filled mouth engulfed the table from beneath, rising up from the hole in the floor with a deafening roar. By the time the massive head was six feet above the floor, two large, grasping hands appeared from inside the hole and hauled the rest of the creature's massive bulk from underground.

There was a moment after the first deafening roar when everyone just stared, their eyes wider than humanly possible as the thing from the hole looked around, its great nostrils flaring. Whistler was slowly backing away, putting two and two together and keeping away from the Slayer.

Niki cocked her head, intrigued, as the thing from beneath the floor dragged itself fully from the hole and sniffed loudly. Whistler continued to back away and Niki turned to him with a frown.

"Look what you started: This wasn't a demon bar until you came—"

Then the screaming began. The people dining and drinking at the Marionette had never seen a real demon before, let alone a Wreqoe dragon. It began to get excited at the screaming and the fleeing and let out another deafening roar, knocking several people over with its club-like tail.

The Slayer stood her ground, crossing her arms as if unimpressed. With a sure move, she reached out and took Whistler by the collar, pulling him back to her. "The Council?"

He nodded. "They'll kill you anyway they can. They have seers who've predicted your death — they're just trying to make sure. They've got a lot invested in your destiny."

"So do I," Niki let him go, roughly, pulling her leather jacket on. "Time to be the killer again."

As it turned the Wreqoe dragon caught sight of Niki, its four eyes widening to terrifying proportions. Niki could see four dark, glassy reflections of herself as the thing looked at its prey. It's nostrils flared and it inhaled her scent, raising itself to its full height, its head slamming hard into the ceiling and bringing down more tiles and plywood.

"So this is it," she said, readying herself. She raised her fists and narrowed her gaze. She was alternately thankful and regretful that she had drank so much. It would dull her pain, certainly, but it was also dulling her reflexes. "This is how I go..."

Whistler turned on his heel, close to the exit and the screaming crowd of customers trying to leave. "So now you're Ms. Fatalistic?" He put his hands angrily on his hips. "I thought you were all about the free choice?"

The head came at her and Niki jumped aside, driving her fist into the side of its face. He reared up again and prepared to lunge again. "But – but you just said my death is important! How we die is inevitable and meaningful and all that!"

"Oh, come on!" the demon in the plum jacket shouted with annoyance, "I was just talking outa my ass! You're not supposed to get eaten by some random orthodontist's nightmare!"

Niki somersaulted between the massive jaws just before they snapped shut and slammed both fists as one into one the dragon's eyes. It roared so loud the mirror behind the bar shook its way loose and smashed on the floor.

"How the hell do you know!?" Niki hollered, her eardrums still ringing. "Who's to say this isn't my destiny? My life's been—" jumped away from a swiping hand "—random and pointless and needlessly violent—" caught the fist which came down to crush her, shoving it to one side and running behind the creature "—and why the hell isn't it appropriate to get eaten in a bar fight?" The dragon's club-like tail hit her full on in the chest and sent her flying into the wall where the mirror used to be.

"Well, if you think it's your destiny to get eaten, why are you fighting so hard?" Whistler argued, crossing his arms. He glanced behind him and noticed the bar was now empty except for the three of them.

"Maybe because I'm shit-faced!" she shouted from behind the bar, standing up with a bottle of vodka in her hand. "I can't be held responsible for my actions."

"So let it eat you," Whistler challenged as the dragon turned to the bar to roar in Niki's direction, blowing her hair back away from her face.

Niki waved away the foul breath of the Wreqoe dragon and took a generous swig from the bottle. "Maybe I don't wanna." She ducked back down behind the bar and came back up with a dishrag. She stuffed one end into the bottle of vodka and then had to duck again as a dragon-hand swept along the bar to collect her head.

When she came back up again she had a lighter in her other hand. It took several tries, but Niki finally lit the Molotov cocktail and hurled it into the demon's mouth. With a terrific roar, it shot a massive column of flame back at the Slayer, who again ducked behind the bar.

When she came up this time, though, there was nothing left of the dragon but a respectable pile of blackish grey ash.

"Did I just fuck up my destiny?" Niki asked, hopping over the bar and wandering towards her other demon companion for the evening.

Whistler laughed. "If anything were going to fuck up your destiny, Niki, it would be beer. But no, I really don't think you were meant to get eaten there."

"Why not?" Niki frowned, slowing their exit from the demolished club.

Whistler sighed and turned back to her. "Because... the rest of those involved with your ultimate end aren't ready yet."

Niki blinked, thinking long and hard about this. This proved difficult considering the very small amount of blood mixed in with the alcohol pumping through her veins. Finally she took another step forward towards the exit. "Did you know they're thinking of reopening the Nail Biter?"

Whistler's eyes widened. "Really? They're not hiring, are they?"

--

Kenneth blinked wearily as he came to. He tried to make a sound, but there was still a plastic tube down his throat. As the haze cleared, he could see two shapes standing over him. They didn't seem to have noticed he was awake and he very slowly felt for the morphine control. It was gone.

"You understand how uncomfortable I am having an angel who specializes in death hanging around my family. That's understandable, right? I'm not crazy?"

Michael shook his head with a smile. "You're not... well, you're not that crazy." The man in the white silk shirt and the blue silk tie slowly crossed his arms as Logan continued to look troubled. "I don't want you to think of me as an angel of death... or an angel associated with death."

"But you are associated with death. Or are you telling me it's just a fetish?" Logan glanced down at the English patient who was pretending to be unconscious. "You're here now, does that mean this guy's going to die?"

Michael showed true frustration for the first time. "It's... exhausting how much you don't understand."

Logan raised his eyebrows and scoffed. "Well, I'm sorry I exhaust you so much. I just assumed being an angel you wouldn't be so skittish about admitting what you are."

"I'm not an angel of death," Michael protested, making frustrated fists. "I'm more like an angel of—" he suddenly held up a cautionary finger. "You know what? You're annoying." Logan frowned in confusion. Michael shook the finger he held in Logan's face. "I'm not an angel of anything. I'm an angel. That's all there is to it. I'm Michael."

"Michael of Death. Okay, I can deal with that." Logan turned back to Kenneth but continued to speak to the man beside him. "You know, if you try anything with my family, I could send you to hell so fast the guy upstairs would do a double take."

"He's going to die," Michael said simply, cutting through Logan's not-quite-empty threats. They both looked down at Kenneth who, Logan could tell, had heard what was being said.

"But's he's in stable condition..." He let the comment hang there. "Unless he's going to be killed." Still, Michael said nothing. "I've got no reason to kill him. Even if he's after Niki, she can take care of herself."

"There are two paths," the angel sounded almost as if he was talking to himself, but he waited patiently for Logan to respond. When he did not, Michael elaborated. "Two paths but only one route."

Logan frowned and squinted, finally turning to the man beside him. "Do they diverge in a wood? You've got to give me something else, here." He laughed. "Are you on something? Seriously... Are you like the angel of LSD?"

"The way to get from here to somewhere else. By either of the two paths. But only one of them will be followed." He indicated the Brit who was trying to remain motionless. "He's on one of them, but he's where it crosses the one I'm on. Bad place to be."

"You're starting to sound like Whistler," Logan said with concern. "And I can't stand him."

Michael turned and gave a genuine smile. "Whistler's on one of the paths too. Not mine, though. And not yours. He's on the Slayer's path."

Logan shrugged, fighting the complete lack of sense in this conversation. "Too bad for her."

The angel continued to smile. "Whistler thinks we're all going down his path... but he doesn't see the other path. Niki has seen it, but she doesn't know it."

Logan smirked sarcastically. "But you, you're the all-seeing Angel of..." his smile melted, "Destiny," he finished weakly.

Michael cocked his head and turned back to Kenneth without response. "He's not an assassin," the angel noted, taking a step closer to the motionless form. The hiss of the ventilator and the relatively steady bleep, bleep of the ECG filled the quiet of the ICU.

"No, I suppose he came all the way from England to sell me some insurance," Logan muttered, no humor in his voice. He too stepped forward to the other side of the Brit's bed. "Who is he?"

Michael slowly reached out and caressed the side of Kenneth's face. The man's eyes flickered behind his eyelids and he flinched very slightly. "Ask him," Michael suggested.

Logan frowned and leaned over the Brit's face. "I know you're awake. If you're not an assassin, what were you doing at my house?" He heard a whimper from the Watcher as the question summoned memories Kenneth could not control. Bleep, bleep, bleep, his heart rate jumped as he opened his eyes, trying to bury the images.

Logan blinked uncertainly as faces of people he didn't know began to flash before his eyes. They were chanting. They were witches. There were Watchers — Council Watchers with them. They were speaking — Logan couldn't quite make it out. Something urgent. Someone was going to die. The Chosen. The next Chosen would be called. A name was called; the Watchers were nodding, writing it down. A picture was being passed around. More nods.

"Who is it?" Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep, Logan could tell Kenneth was fighting the memories as hard as he could and very slowly the conjurer laid a hand on the side of the Watcher's face.

Instantly another face sprang before his eyes. Color drained from Logan's face as the girl's smile pierced his heart. No, Logan slowly shook his head. No chance in hell...

"Two paths, one route," Michael folded his hands, his work already accomplished. "And now you have to choose."

Logan tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. With an ashen face, he slowly took his hand from Kenneth, his fingernails glowing. Kenneth's eyes were wide and his jaw was working around the plastic tube which ran down his throat. He gurgled, trying to call out.

With electricity sparking between his fingers, Logan, wide-eyed, reached down and covered the Watcher's eyes with one hand and aimed a trembling finger at the banks of equipment alive and humming near the bed. Kenneth gripped Logan's hand, twisting weakly on the bed, unable to see what was going on. The ECG bleeped rapidly.

Michael closed his eyes and Logan touched the machinery with the end of his glowing finger, Hanna's smiling face burned into his mind's eye. Everything he had ever known about the disastrous life of Niki Valtaine pounded between his temples as the electricity crackled. Not my little girl, he swore.

Bleep... bleep...


	13. Blind and Dangerous

Blind and Dangerous - Act 1

She knelt on the cool grass with unexpected tears in her eyes. She had avoided coming to this place for a long time. Since the interment. With a weak arm, she reached out and let her fingers run down the polished surface. The lovely polished granite was still warm from sitting in the sun all day. This was a beautiful spot.

Niki's fingers traced out the name carved in the headstone. Richard Jeffery Addison. He was down there, six feet beneath the cool grass which had sprung up around the headstone. He really was dead. The British Consul had decided not to fly his body back to England for burial, since Addison had been in disfavor with the Council at the time of his death. So here he lay, in a simple coffin, with a simple headstone, on a little hill with the girl he had destroyed kneeling and crying in the dying rays of the sun.

As the last of the light had been eaten up by shadow, Niki swallowed her tears and turned her head slightly, noticing the fresh dirt above the grave to her left. As if on cue, a hand thrust out of the ground.

Niki grated her teeth and turned back to Addison's name, tears still in her eyes. "I hate you."

She stood and pulled her jacket on, gripping the stake tightly. It had been a while, as a matter of fact, since she had done some honest slaying. But it was like riding a lawyer; the moves never changed and the outcome was always a little disappointing.

She waited patiently as the young vamp pulled herself from the earth, gasping for breath and glaring through yellow, wolfish eyes at the fresh evening which promised blood. Niki stared back, readying herself for the timeless duel, the simplest expression of the unending struggle between evil and whatever Niki herself was: Whatever side Niki fought for always won the battle, but the war never ended.

The vamp lunged, tackling Niki around the middle. The two went tumbling to the ground, the Slayer taking several punches to the face before she kicked the vamp over her head then jumped to her feet. Tensed and ready in an instant, Niki lunged this time, kicking high and striking the vampire in the face, sending her staggering backward.

Niki grinned, charging forward when she felt the vampire was ready again, twisting to the side at the last minute and avoiding the vamp's bear hug, ending up behind to thrust the stake hard into the vamp's back.

With a scream and the hiss of ash, the vamp collapsed to cool grass below. Niki took a breath and nodded with satisfaction, her inner turmoil momentarily forgotten. The Slayer slid the stake back into her pocket and tugged at the collar of her jacket, getting some air under it on this warm evening. Then an unusually cool breeze sent her hair blowing across her face. She frowned and tightened her jacket around her.

A blazing blue light soon exploded out of nothing to her right and the ice cold wind intensified, seeming to come from the light. In a heartbeat, the light and the wind were gone and Niki was left standing with a confused frown.

"Who the hell are you?"

The figure stepped out of the blurry after image which plagued Niki's vision. Finally her vision cleared and she brushed her blond hair from her face. The figure was short for a demon, certainly not fear-inspiring. Niki couldn't really tell whether it was male or female, it was so emaciated.

It wore a burlap robe which was tied at the waist with a twine rope. The robe had no sleeves and the figure's skinny arms moved about as if they weighed nothing. From what Niki could see of the legs, they seemed as skinny as she could imagine was possible.

The figure's head was so starved it was nearly skeletal, every feature of its jaw outlined beneath paper thin skin. Its eyes were sunk back into its head, but they were alive and active, looking around with a crystal clear intensity. Upon the bald head was a simple burlap skullcap which covered the top of its head and hung down the back of its neck.

In its left hand it carried a small tree branch, a few dead leaves still clinging to one end. The figure made a slow step forward and Niki tensed. If this thing was as fragile as it looked, a fight like this would be very short. In the blink of an eye, the figure was standing inches from the Slayer, its sunken eyes staring deep into her with a haunting intensity.

"Give it to me," the skeletal figure ordered in a thin voice which sounded as if it weren't used to speaking. Its breath smelled like a dozen dead bodies — something Niki had smelled in her lifetime.

The Slayer took a step back. "Give you what?"

The figure shook the stick between them, its leaves rustling. "Time will tell," it breathed, sucking in a deep, rattling breath. With a disgusted look, Niki watched as flesh filled out the skeletal form, muscle grew beneath the skin and the eyes rose from their deep pits. Soon the figure was anything but fragile, bulked with muscles and the stature of a heavyweight wrestler.

Niki shifted her weight, ready to fight. This was surely some kind of demon the Council had summoned. That thought being all the incentive she needed, she scissor kicked it in the jaw, her foot feeling like it was hitting stone. The figure lifted the branch, which seemed to have found new life, its leaves green and thick. With a shake and a rustling of leaves, Niki was thrown back into a large tombstone. She slid to the ground with a groan.

Some kind of wizard, she thought, getting to her feet and charging. The stick was the key, though. She twisted around it as the figure raised it against her and snatched it from muscular hands. The instant her hand touched it, however, an incredible pain overtook her and she dropped it to the ground, screaming in pain. She lay on the ground, fighting her body's commands to pass out. With a deep breath she jumped to her feet again, her arm still feeling like it was on fire. The figure was gone.

Niki looked down to where she had dropped the stick. It too was gone. Where it had been was a patch of dead grass, barren earth outlining where the stick had lain. She swallowed. That was some demon. She shook the receding pain away from her arm, suddenly overcome with dizziness.

She collapsed to her knees, doubling over in nausea. A blur of images and sounds charged through her brain for a split second, leaving her on the grass, panting for breath. A moment later, another blur and another shout of pain.

After a long minute of gasping for breath and praying the pain would end, Niki managed to get back up onto her knees. She slowly looked over to the polished granite surface marking the grave of her late Watcher, drawing in a deep breath.

"That all you got?"

--

Logan glanced up from the mess of papers on the coffee table. Rachel was sitting in the easy chair, silently reading a novel. The silence between them was like a taut piano string. If it broke, it was going to hurt someone.

Logan swallowed and carefully turned a page over, trying not make any noise. It was ridiculous, but Logan knew Rachel was watching him. Not now. Not with her eyes. But all the time he was out of the house... he was sure someone was following him.

Logan had managed to convince the court to drop the jail time associated with vehicular manslaughter, but the crime was still on his record and it was going to take some time to pay off the fine. The Watcher Logan had run over obviously didn't have anyone to stick up for him, which surprised Logan. Some men, likely from the Council, had come and collected his belongings and let the city cremate and inter him.

The fact that Hanna was a Potential Slayer had taken him by surprise and he didn't feel he had done anything a good father wouldn't do to protect his daughter by killing her would-be Watcher. He had also learned something valuable about Michael, namely that the so-called angel didn't actually kill people. He hung around death, that was for sure, and he seemed able to predict it or foresee it — Logan wasn't at all clear on that point, but he was getting to be as cryptic and annoyingly unhelpful as Whistler, so Logan had abandoned his attempts to get more out of him.

He slowly turned the page and scanned the words printed there. Rachel had figured out that Logan had run the Brit down because he had thought he was being followed and had since stopped acting outwardly angry at him. She knew, he supposed, that he would do the same with his car to anyone else he suspected was encroaching on his privacy. Logan had, in fact, not seen anyone tailing him since that night. Turn the page. Suddenly, the piano string of tension snapped with the sound of the doorbell.

Logan leapt to his feet and Rachel snapped her book closed.

"I'll get it," he said louder than necessary. Walking quickly to the door, he opened it to an unfamiliar face.

The young man was a little shorter than Logan and had short, spiked, red hair. He didn't recognize the band on his shirt, and didn't at all like the way he was staring at Logan. The young man swallowed.

"Uh... hey. I obviously have the right house... There's — there's someone I think you should meet. D'you want to come for a walk with me?"

Logan frowned. "Are you selling something?"

The young man shook his head, his gaze locked on Logan's face, slowly dropping to his button up shirt. "I think you're really gonna want to meet him."

Logan glanced back to the deep freezer of tension behind him. He could feel Rachel's eyes on him. Then he shrugged and grabbed his khaki jacket, closing the door behind him. He was grateful to get out of the house and even if this kid wanted to kill him, at least he would get some exercise. "Just so you know," Logan said cheerfully, "I ran over a guy last month just for thinking about my daughter."

The young man swallowed. "I believe you. It's this way." He led Logan down the street a little, under the cones of light thrown by the streetlights. They passed a tall hedge and out of the surrounding darkness, Logan could feel something. Something terrifying and familiar at the same time. Unnaturally familiar.

A new man stepped from the shadows and looked Logan up and down with a slow grin. He slowly took a deep breath, his chest rising under his white silk shirt. Logan has seen a shirt like that before, under a blue silk tie and worn by an angel who insisted he was not associated with death.

The younger, red-haired man cocked his head, looking intently from one of their faces to the other. He made a sound of amazement.

Logan frowned and squinted, looking through the shadow covering the man's face. As the man in the silk shirt stepped forward a little into the light, Logan's eyes nearly jumped out of his head. He opened his mouth to swear, but his suddenly dry mouth couldn't find the words.

"Oz, this is Logan," the man in the silk shirt facilitated the introductions, "Logan, this is my friend Oz. And of course, we've met before." The man cracked a smile. "Every day in the bathroom mirror."

Logan looked in utter disbelief as his own face stared back at him from beneath a mess of long, shaggy blond hair. It's a trick, his mind insisted. A spell or something. But why?

"Who the hell are you?" Logan demanded, taking a careful step back and trying to summon the electricity in his hands.

The man in the silk shirt smiled even more. "My name is Loki. I'm you... about twenty years from now."

Logan flexed his fists. As powerful as he knew he was, it was always something that came at times of emotional stress. It wasn't something he could really conjure on command. He swallowed. Stall. Say something. Pretend you believe him.

"I look good," Logan noted, finding not a single grey in the mop of blond hair. "Though I could use a haircut."

Oz smiled a little but said nothing. Loki took the comment with grace. "Twenty years might change your mind. I know it's changed mine."

"What... what am I doing here... twenty years from now?" Logan looked down at his hands, not even a flicker from the power that hid somewhere within him. He snapped his fingers, trying to get a spark. Nothing.

"I'm here because I need your help. My help – whatever." Loki kept his wry smile and sighed. "We have to stop a demon called the Timekeeper. It wants to kill someone called Wilson."

Logan looked quickly from Oz to Loki. "What... what do you need my help for?"

Loki shrugged a little. "Two me's are better than one. This is the point in time, I know, where I am at my strongest. A little out of control, I'll be the first to admit, but strong nonetheless."

Logan blinked. "Uh... thanks. I think." He swallowed again, then pointed to the young red haired man. "And who's he again?"

Loki looked to the young man with surprise, as if he hadn't really thought about it. "That's Oz."

Logan's brow creased a little. "Is... is that like a joke?" He pointed to each in turn, "The Wizard and Oz?"

Loki laughed out loud but Oz frowned. Loki patted the young man on the shoulder. "Ha! I'd never thought of it that way... See? I'm clever in any decade."

Logan shook his head once, his frown becoming one of distrust. "No, I'm sorry; you're going to have to give me a little proof. You could be any one of a dozen demons that wants to use my power for its own purp—"

"I sang Hanna to sleep again after I made her break up with her boyfriend." Loki stood with his arms crossed and his eyes challenging Logan to call him a liar. "I was a complete ass for cheating on my wife with a skanky Slayer... at least, that's what I told her. The truth is—"

"Okay, I believe you," Logan held up his hands for the other man to stop. "But this... this is kinda weird. Like... does you being here change the timeline or something?"

Oz nodded. "Yeah... He tried to explain it to me... it took three aspirin to get rid of that headache."

Loki smiled. "I'm not changing the timeline... see, I remember all this happening. I remember standing where you are and hearing me say these things. But try explaining that to the Timekeeper."

Logan shook his head to clear the confusion. "Who's the Timekeeper again?"

Loki sighed, the smile disappearing. "The Timekeeper's the demon who's going to try to kill us all."

--

Blind and Dangerous - Act 2

Niki walked from the cemetery with a vicious headache. Some of the flashes, though, were beginning to resolve themselves in her memory. They were indeed like things she remembered. Memories of doing things. Things she could swear she had never done. But they were her memories... She shook her head, unable to reconcile the flashes with any kind of logic. All she knew for sure was that if the Council was summoning demons like that to kill her... she might be in trouble.

She stepped off the curb and began to cross the dark street when another wave of nausea overcame her. Unable to help it, she collapsed onto her knees in the middle of the street, clutching her stomach.

The image was clearer this time. She remembered being in a house. It was sunset. There were screams. She remembered battling a great, dark demon. It skin was black and leathery, it had two tall horns on its head like a gazelle.

Niki blinked, knowing she had to get up off the street but she was still seeing the memory, the flashes punctuated by the sound of the demon shaking its stick. She closed her eyes and willed the vision to leave her. When she opened them she was still fighting the horned demon, punching it, kicking it. She grabbed it by the throat and brought it to the ground—

With an urgent honking, the taxi driver saw her at the last minute and swerved out of the way. The screeching of tires pulled her from the vision and she lifted herself to her feet, staggering to the far side of the street, only to collapse back to her knees as the vision took hold again.

Now she was losing against the horned creature – it had her arm pinned behind her back and was snarling fiercely. She struggled against it, but its leathery hands slid up her shoulder to her neck. With an iron grip, it took hold of her by the throat, closing its fist with a wet crunch.

Niki knelt on the sidewalk, clutching her throat, gasping for breath as if the demon was there with her now, choking the life out of her. She fell back onto the concrete, staring up as if the demon were staring down at her.

It leered as it reached down to take its prize from its victim. Niki, with her last dying gasps, could feel its fingers spreading across her chest. It leaned down close to her and opened its mouth to inhale of her.

Niki sat bolt upright on the dark sidewalk, her eyes wide, her vision clear. It was a memory. Her last memory. She shook her head to rid herself of the feeling of the hand on her chest. She gently massaged her ribs where she had felt the force of the creature's blows.

"Are you okay, Miss?" A hand was placed on her shoulder and a young man squatted down next to her in concern. "Do you need to go to a hospital?"

Niki blinked rapidly, quickly standing up and dusting herself off. "Uh... no. Thanks, I just– I'll be fine." Without even a glance at the man she turned and bolted down the dark street, running as fast as her legs would carry her.

The man who had stopped to help her watched her go, his face impassive as she outran the city traffic to the next intersection, disappearing around the corner. He stared after her for several seconds, slowly wiping the dust from his hands and reaching for his belt.

He lifted the small radio from its clip and brought it to his lips. "I've made contact: She's heading North."

--

Logan stood, very skeptically, with his arms crossed in the glow of the streetlight. "This may be a stupid question, so bear with me, but why would a demon... the Timekeeper?... yeah, why would it chase you all over the history book just to kill you? Couldn't it just pop back to before you – before we were born and, say, sell dad a condom?"

Loki rolled his eyes. "It can't disrupt the timeline. In fact, its job is to protect the timeline from disruption."

Logan slowly nodded, beginning to understand. "Oooh... I get it now. It's trying to kill you _because_ you're here."

Loki nodded. "Now you're getting it. Though, technically, it doesn't really need to kill us – just Wilson."

Logan shook his head — "Who's Wilson?"

Loki opened his mouth to answer when Oz grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back into the shadows of the hedge. A heartbeat later, Rachel pushed the front door open and stepped out onto the lawn.

"Logan, who are you talking to?" She called, her arms crossed and her expression grim.

Logan scowled. "No one, honey, go inside."

She scoffed and dismissed him with a disdainful wave of her hand, trudging back into the house. "Fine, but I'm locking the door."

Logan's jaw tightened and he swallowed a retort. Looking back to the shadows, Loki and Oz were gone.

--

The next morning found Niki wandering the streets of Manhattan, desperately searching for something — anything which could make the visions stop. She remembered the Nail Biter was reopening and made her way to 37th Avenue East.

She staggered down the refinished steps and burst through the door into her old bar of choice. It was practically deserted. The place was finished, mostly, but there were very few patrons compared to what Niki remembered. This fact didn't hold her attention very long, however, as the feeling which preceded every wave of nausea began in her gut.

She rushed to the bar and slammed her fist down on the glass surface. "Gimme some Stuff," she commanded, glaring into the unfamiliar demon face of the bartender. He answered her glare with an uncertain frown, then slowly drew the vial of white powder from the counter behind him, setting it before the Slayer. He reached for a bottle of whiskey and a glass, but she waved him off, uncapping the vial and dumping a good triple dose of the narcotic-toxin into her mouth. She grimaced as she swallowed the chalky substance, then in under a minute passed out on the floor.

The vison which consumed her consciousness, as her body lay limp on the floor, was different than the one from which she had tried to escape with the white powder. There was no horned demon at sunset. No screams and death. Just a dark warehouse. Just two backlit figures. Just a feeling.

Her blood slowing in her veins as the chemical coursed through her, Niki was unable to fight off the vision this time. It was as real to her as any of her inherent Slayer dreams. She stood now before the two silhouettes, a different kind of nausea churning in her unconscious gut; this feeling born of fear.

For once there was some actual creature — creatures now, which actually inspired fear in the Slayer. Not fear of death or pain as she expected to feel if she ever again encountered the stick-waving Council-summoned demon... No, this fear was something she couldn't identify. She was terrified by their very existence. By their identity.

In her unconscious mind she could remember that she knew who they were and that who they were was terrifying... but exactly who that was, was not part of the memory. But they did speak... more or less. They laughed at her. They laughed because they had deceived her.

Niki stirred in her delirium, slowly opening her eyes to find herself laying undignified on the pavement outside the bar, her pockets all turned inside out as the bartender had likely searched her person for the money she owed for the Stuff.

Niki swallowed, she had been deceived again. Or, at least, she would be... she remembered that much. Standing and brushing herself off, she marched down the street with the pulse-pounding power she remembered from the highs induced by Stuff in her earlier years. She would find these deceivers: she already remembered finding them... and they would finally have to answer to the Slayer.

--

Rachel stood before the desk of Marcus Hamilton yet again. Yet again she offered her hand and he yet again he refused to shake it. Sitting down as if not insulted, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to start.

"Mrs. Kilpatrick," he began with a cavalier demeanor which she could not imitate no matter how hard she tried, "your private investigator has been observing your husband for months now and I've called you here because he has compiled a preliminary report which you are entitled to read."

Rachel slowly inclined her head. "You've read it?"

A brief frown flickered through Hamilton's eyes. "Of course not. I assured you that all information between the investigator and yourself would remain confidential and it has. I only convey to you the degree of importance of the information from what the investigator tells me, and he tells me that his preliminary report is complete."

Hamilton slid a thick, sealed manila envelope across his desk toward the woman sitting with her hands tightly clenched. There was a moment when she just stared at it — unopened, inoffensive, as of yet proving nothing. Finally she swallowed and reached out, lifting it and bringing it to her lap.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "When can I expect the final report?"

Hamilton took a deep breath and shrugged. "That depends on whether or not you feel the information collected to date to be conclusive. If you want, we can continue the investigation for another few months. If not, the final report can be in your hands by the end of the week."

Rachel nodded, glancing down at the thick envelope. "I'll have to get back to you."

Hamilton nodded. "Of course, of course. You can call my office any time... day or night."

Rachel felt the thickness of the document within the envelope. At least two hundred pages, all about her husband and his activities... maybe his indiscretions... maybe not. With a breath of composure she stood and turned to go, knowing by now that Hamilton was not the hand shaking type.

"Thank you," she said distantly over her shoulder. She continued to remind herself she was justified in doing this... this was the reason private investigators existed in the first place, but as she carried the weight of the envelope through the receiving office towards the elevator, she couldn't help but feel that it somehow made her dirty.

--

Logan reclined in his small cubicle, missing his large office at Wolfram and Hart. It probably didn't miss him, though. If he had stayed any longer, he probably would have been fired and given a less than savory severance package.

Glancing left, then right, Logan hunched down over his desk again and refocused his attention on the tiny cactus which was the sole decoration his small desk merited. The cactus was small and unobtrusive, but Logan had been spending a lot of time on it lately. He had recently become very aware of his one sided magical abilities. Hurt but not heal. Kill but not resurrect. His emotions and stress level being the only way to call on those violent abilities.

The lawyer smirked: except for his car. The little brown fixer upper was held together by most of the Olympians and a few of the Egyptian deities and the only reason Logan could come up with as to why this worked was that he often became so angry at his car for dying, as parts of it did, that keeping it alive a piece at a time was in fact a very cruel and violent thing to do. Love had no part in it. Love was a weakness as far as Logan's power was concerned. Peace and tranquility and contentment were the times when he felt least powerful. Fear and anger were his motivators. Fear of someone hurting what he loved; anger at someone already having done so.

So now he concentrated on the cactus. The happy, inconspicuous little cactus which had been content to sit in the corner between the paperclips and the inbox now found itself the center of attention of a conjurer with a history of violent emotional instability and magical rampages. If cacti could sweat, this one would have been.

Logan slowly moved his hands over the little spiky thing, chanting very, very quietly. He commanded the cactus to grow, to fill and expand, to reach its full potential as an office plant. When he pulled his hands back, the cactus was a little black lump of quivering jelly.

"Nice trick," the young, red-haired man from last night stepped into the cubicle, his hands in his pockets. "What happens if you do that to something that's already Jell-O?"

Logan leaned back and crossed his arms. "Oz, right?" The young man nodded but Logan shook his head. "When do people start naming their kids Oz?"

The young man smiled. "My name is Daniel Osborne, but everyone calls me Oz."

"Where's... uh... where's Loki?" Logan gave up trying to refer to them both as the same person. Language just hadn't been invented with time travel in mind.

Oz replied without missing a beat. "He has some other business to take care of."

--

Niki hurried down the street, her destination clear. It was this way. Not a direction, just a feeling, guided by her memory of the future. She had been walking for hours, too consumed by getting where she was going to stop and think. She had not a dollar to her name and hadn't eaten in two days, but nothing was on her mind at the moment but the warehouse she had seen in her vision.

If fighting the demon with the horns was her death —her destiny— then the confrontation in the warehouse must happen before that. Logically, she should be avoiding the warehouse: As long as she avoided it, she would be putting off her death... But something urged her on; demanded she meet it, fight it and for once win. Maybe there was nothing at all urging her on but destiny: The prophet under the bridge had told her the Deceivers would end... she thought... sometime around now. Then again, he hadn't predicted her death so soon either. Between Whistler and an insane prophet who had blown himself up, as much as she loathed to, she had to trust Whistler.

So she hurried along the street to meet her destiny, her stomach an empty pit and her muscles on fire from running for hours. The surge from the Stuff was dying off now and—

The nightstick connected hard with her forehead and she landed hard on her back, seeing stars. Before she could even blink, a hand took her ankle and dragged her into the nearest alley. In seconds, she had shaken off the initial shock and jumped to her feet.

Three men and two women faced her now, forming a semicircle which hemmed her in against the back wall of the alley. Niki looked from face to face. They didn't feel... no, they weren't vampires. Or demons. One of them reached for something on his belt. Niki tensed, raising her fists for a fight.

"We've got her," the man barked into the radio. "Tell all units to meet at this position." He clipped the small device back to his belt, then all five of them took a step back.

"Niki Valtaine," one of the other men said authoritatively, reaching into his back pocket for something the Slayer couldn't see, "by authority of the Council of Watchers, we hereby take you into custody for reckless—"

"Are you fucking kidding me" Niki laughed out loud, her eyes lighting up with joy. "Five humans? You guys just won't take a hint, will you?"

The man who had been talking scowled and continued. "For reckless disregard for the orders of the Council and for the murders of Richard Addison, Kenneth Wright—"

"Look, guys, I'm sure you've gone to a lot of trouble to find me..." she glanced down at the walkie talkies they all carried, "playing secret agent and everything, but I'm in a hurry, so can I just beat the living shit out of you now?"

The man who she had again interrupted pulled the shackles from behind his back and stepped towards her. "You're not going to be hurting anyone ever again."

Niki's fists tightened and she tensed for a spinning kick. Just as she was about to make this little prick wish he'd become a sailor, one of the two women of the group raised her hand and Niki found she couldn't move.

"Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that historians and bounty hunters are the only thing the Council has going for it," the woman cocked her head, almost insulted that Niki had been ignoring them up until then. "You've given the coven an interesting run, Niki. You life has been anything but boring."

Niki twisted inside the binding spell, but couldn't stop the man from slapping the shackles around her wrists. As Niki watched, he bolted them tight and tugged to make sure they would hold. They were no doubt designed to hold a Slayer. "If you want me dead," she said between clenched teeth, "then you'll have to let me go: I've seen how this plays out. A demon kills me, not a bunch of witches and their pet secret agents."

"What would you know about your destiny?" the second woman asked, stepped closer to the Slayer than any of the others dared.

"I'm not answering any of your questions, bitch," Niki spat, glaring at the smaller, lighter yet more powerful woman standing before her.

The woman shrugged. "You choice. But I guarantee you it doesn't matter how you die. The coven has seen that the line of Slayers has to continue according to schedule if the balance is to be maintained. Your time is officially over and the new Chosen One is due any day now."

"Well, as much as I hate throwing the Council's schedules off balance... I've got my own plans and they happen to include dying when and how I choose."

"Well," said the man who has shackled her, "you'll have to forgive us if we don't have buckets of faith in you. I don't know what the Powers were smoking when you were called, but I think it's fair to say you were the biggest mistake in the history of vampire slaying."

"Really?" Niki said sarcastically, "the whole history? Wow. Do I get a plaque or a sidewalk star or something?"

"Can we kill her yet?" one of the witches demanded, but she was waved off by the man who was apparently the leader of the group.

"You said the coven had foreseen the day and time of her death." He stared at Niki with a look which said he enjoyed his job. "We have to wait until then if the line is going to proceed."

"I don't think it's up to you," a merry voice called from the mouth of the alley. All heads turned and most faces turned to frowns. The man with the white silk shirt strode casually towards them, brushing a strand of blond hair from his face.

Niki looked the most puzzled of all of them. "Logan?" she said with confusion. "You... look different."

Loki grinned widely, showing perfect white teeth. "Niki," he said with a hungry look in his eyes. "It's good to see you again." She frowned, a little taken aback.

"Uh.. Thanks. You too."

The witches were slowly backing up, their eyes widening. "It's him... he's the—"

"Take a nap," Loki ordered, waving a hand before him. The two women dropped to the ground, unconscious. "And you three," the conjurer frowned with disapproval at the three men who had drawn their guns and were backing away. "Chill out."

With a twist of light, they were gone and Niki found she could move again. The Slayer looked around the alley and stepped over the unconscious women and took the man's proffered hand. "Where'd they go?" she asked hesitantly.

"I sent them on a vacation to— well... think 'North of Santa Clause.'"

Niki was staring at the man's shirt, frowning as if she knew something was seriously wrong. "Logan... what's going on? Where'd you come from and how—"

"Is this better?" He snapped his fingers and instead of a white shirt he wore his usual tan jacket and his hair was short again. "Ah, that's better. When in Rome..."

"Logan, I—" the Slayer was cut off as Loki took her roughly by the shoulders and kissed her more passionately than any man in her entire life. When he finally pulled away, his eyes alight with desire, she couldn't have been farther from wanting to find a warehouse or a horned demon...

--

Hanna lay upside down on the couch, her feet dangling over the back, her face red and her eyes darting over the pictures of her favorite celebrities in the upside down magazine. It was just after noon and there was nothing good on TV. If she'd been any other self respecting teenage girl, she would have wished she could be at the mall right now, but her social life still hadn't recovered from the stories of vampires and the follow-up rumors of self-mutilation and she enjoyed the quiet of the house.

It didn't really matter. When September rolled around, she'd be in highschool — bottom rung of the ladder, but at least it was a different school: a different ladder and another chance for a social life. Maybe a new boyfriend.

Despite the painful ending to her and Matt's relationship, she had enjoyed the feeling of sharing her life with someone else. Especially the feeling of sharing that terribly heavy secret of who her father really was. At first she had felt it made her special. It was, after all, cool to have secrets, but she had soon discovered that this secret was too dangerous to share and now it was driving her crazy. She already wished she didn't know her dad was a sorcerer. But wishing didn't make the burden go away.

She tumbled off the couch onto the floor the instant the doorbell rang. Quickly standing up, she swayed precariously as the blood rushed from her head. Staggering to the door, she giggled a little at the dizziness. Her little grin melted from her face as Matt stared back at her from the other side of the doorway.

"Hey," he said, his gaze as always seeing straight into her soul. But now that gaze looked guilty and hesitant, as if it knew it had no right to see her soul.

Hanna sighed in annoyance and went to close the door. "Go away." But he reached in and put his hand on the door to keep it open.

"I just want to talk," he said gently.

"Well I don't," she insisted, grabbing the edge of the door with both hands and trying to force it closed.

"What happened... I didn't really want your dad to get hurt— I just—" he struggled to hold the door open, finally planting his foot at the base of the door.

"You lied to me," Hanna said angrily, "I told you everything about me, and you told me your foster mom was a guidance counselor."

Matt winced. "She _was_ a guidance counselor. She... also was a demon." He shrugged helplessly. "I was afraid you would overreact!"

Hanna kicked his foot from the doorway. "Well this is me overreacting." She slammed the door in his face but as soon as she had turned to leave it at that, Matt opened the door again and stepped inside.

"Ugh, get out!" she turned on him, pointing angrily back out the door. "Don't you get it? We're done! We're finished!"

"We're not finished," Matt argued, crossing his arms. "Not until I get to say what I want to say – not until you've heard my side of it."

"I've seen your side of it!" She shouted. "Your side of it is a smoking hole in the ground! It wouldn't have been that way if you'd just told me—"

"You little brat," Matt growled, his hands making fists. "You've had everything handed to you! I thought you understood me, but you're just daddy's little girl, aren't you?"

Hanna was shaking her head in exasperation. "God! You're such a jerk! I wish you would just—"

--

Blind and Dangerous Act 3

Logan yawned despite himself. It was later than usual, and his day had been anything but boring. His hands gripped the steering wheel and he blinked away the fatigue. It wouldn't do to crash now, not after everything.

The young man sitting in the passenger seat had spent the afternoon meditating with him, explaining to him the rudimentary Buddhist methods of controlling his power. Apparently there was some very amusing paradox involved with this, but Logan didn't understand it and probably wouldn't for a good twenty years.

The conjurer still had a very long way to go before completely mastering the power he wielded, but Oz assured him it would happen and he would go on to do... great things. Logan couldn't help but worry about the way Oz had said that, but the prospect of controlling the power that frightened even him was appealing. As it turned out, even introductory intensive meditation was exhausting and Logan looked forward to getting home and sleeping for a good eight hours.

The streetlights flashed by above them and a miserable rain began, pattering all over the windshield and scattering the orange light.

"Feel like stopping for a drink?" Logan asked, glancing for a moment to his red haired passenger. The smaller man slowly shook his head. He had some unidentifiably troubled look in his eyes.

"No, I think you should get home." The young man swallowed. "I don't know what's keeping Loki... would you mind if I crashed on your couch?"

Logan considered the ramifications of bringing home a stranger at this hour. He thought of Rachel's reaction and smirked. "Only if you don't mind some company," he chuckled for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Uh... yeah. Sure you can crash."

Oz nodded with distant gratitude. The little brown car pulled into the driveway to find all the lights already out. Logan reached for his black umbrella and opened the driver's door, only to find the rain had momentarily let up.

He led Oz up to the front door and fumbled with his keys, unlocking it and marching inside making little attempt to be quiet. He may be late, but it was still too early for Rachel to be in bed. As a matter of fact... Hanna should still be awake.

Logan's blood suddenly ran cold. Motioning Oz to be quiet, Logan very quickly and quietly removed his khaki jacket and kicked off his shoes, making his way silently up the stairs. Despite Logan's gestures, Oz followed, unsure of what he expected to find.

Walking on the edges of his sock feet and avoiding the places he knew the floor creaked, Logan moved down the dark upstairs hallway, coming first to Hanna's bedroom where some dim light could be seen under the doorway.

Without a word, Logan pushed the door open and stepped inside, his toes feeling numb. He called on everything he had learned today about his kaya and the sunyata, but it all seemed very far away as he entered his daughter's bedroom. Oz stopped at the top of the stairs and waited, looking uncertainly over his shoulder into the darkness.

Logan let out his breath at last as his eyes fell upon Hanna, sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed, holding her knees to her chest, crying.

"Honey," Logan said gently, squatting down next to her and reaching to take her into his arms. "Honey, what happened? Are you okay? Is your mother okay?"

Hanna resisted Logan's hug, her tear stung eyes narrowing to anger. "You— you said you killed her," she sobbed, giving him a hard shove in the shoulders. She laid her head in her arms and wiped her tears away with her sleeves.

"What are you talking about?" Logan asked, his worry growing again. "Killed who?"

"That demon!" Hanna shouted at him, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "You killed her! It's your fault! I thought she was dead!"

"Honey, listen to me!" Logan took Hanna with a firm grip by the shoulders and shook her gently once. "What happened?" he asked, looking firmly into her blue eyes.

"Matt," she swallowed hard, trying to keep back more tears. After a moment of staring into her father's uncomprehending eyes, she collapsed into his shoulder and cried. "Matt!" she sobbed. "He's dead— I s–said I wished he would just die and he did!" She gripped her father's shirt in white knuckled fists. "There was a demon there, she said— she granted my wish and Matt died!"

Logan gently stroked his daughter's hair, his jaw tight. His hands trembled as he held her tight. There was nothing — no chance at all of keeping Hanna out of this. He had tried. He had fought and killed to keep her out of this world: out of this grief. Something much more powerful than he was fighting against him. But it would fail.

"I take it back," Hanna sobbed, holding Logan tighter and tighter. "I take it back. I take it back. I didn't mean it!"

Logan swallowed, slowly lifting his gaze to the ceiling and the uncaring gods above. He slowly shook his head, his eyes burning with hate.

"Logan!" Oz dashed into the room, his eyes wide. "We have to go– we have to..." He frowned as he saw the girl Logan was holding. His eyes were fixed firmly on Hanna. His jaw slowly dropped. "Wait...What year is this?"

"What's wrong?" Logan turned quickly, standing and bringing his daughter her feet.

Oz shook his head and concentrated on what mattered. "We have to get out of here. It's time—" he tapped the watch on his wrist.

"Time for what?" Logan frowned, still holding Hanna's head against his shoulder.

"Time will tell," a voice said from behind them. Logan and Hanna slowly turned to see what Oz was looking at. The conjurer's eyes widened and Hanna bit her lip, trying not to make a sound.

--

Niki's teeth sank into her bottom lip, trying to hold back the scream. Then he plunged into her again. And again. And again, harder. His groans filled her, his heartbeat was as fast as hers. He had never been this good. Never tasted like this.

Loki kneaded her flesh with fingers which burned to the touch. Her skin slid under his fingers, slick with hot sweat. His lips drew her into his mouth, suckling, gently biting as he slammed hard into her again and again, his force racking her body. Sparks of pleasure crackled from his hands as he used them on her.

Her hands slid down his back, holding him against her, pulling him always closer and deeper as the heat of him filled her with every pulse. Never been this good. Even their first time — her first time with a real man, had been nothing compared to this. His every look brought her to the peak, the electric desire of his skin on hers was ecstasy.

She had long since forgotten where they were. She knew somewhere in her mind it was not where they had started. As crazy and stupidly romantic as it sounded, she could swear they really had been moving the Earth.

He had taken her to one of the sleazier demon bars with only one thing in mind. When he had touched her naked form again for the first time in twenty years, the bar had faded and he had been kissing her on the bridge in moonlight. She had returned his kiss and found herself exploring his new body in a silver field. He had spread her thighs and kissed her there on a rolling red ocean by a bleeding sunset.

He thrilled her now on the edge of a high cliff above a foaming sea. But her eyes were closed and she couldn't hear anything but his breath and heartbeat. She sucked in a breath and held his head to her neck as he feasted on her flesh, her hips jerking to his rhythm.

When she finally came down from the sky and his electric touch numbed, they were laying on the bed in the back of the bar, sweating on sheets without a crease in them. Niki laid her head back from his lips and tried to catch her breath, the hum of his power shivering through every ache in her body.

His chest heaving, he slowly laid himself down next to her on the bed which had never been used.

"Logan, I thought... I thought you said you couldn't do this anymore." She said between gasps for breath.

His hand ran up her glistening stomach, trailing sparks which made her flesh quiver. "Did it seem to you like I couldn't?"

In the darkness, they left the bar still flushed and walked hand in hand through the light rain. Niki was looking ahead and Loki was just staring at her. They crossed the street and took shelter in the doorway of a small shop.

After a long while of staring into the damp night, Niki turned to the man she knew as Logan Kilpatrick. "You would never lie to me, would you?"

Loki frowned. He had been treading on new ground since he had decided to kiss her. "Of course I wouldn't." Logan wouldn't lie to Niki. Loki lied to everyone. "I love you," he brushed the damp hair from her face.

She hugged the leather jacket tighter around her, turning back to the night. "I don't want to die," she said at last, her eyes seeking comfort in the blackness. "I don't care about prophecy or the next Slayer. I'm not ready."

Loki's frown deepened and he held her tighter. "Of course you're not ready. You're not going to— who said you were going to die?"

Niki's eyes continued to search the darkness, cones of rain illuminated by the streetlights. "Whistler. Those Council guys. Everyone says I'm going to die— says I have to die."

"Well everyone should keep their mouths shut." Loki ground his teeth. "You'll figure this out, Niki. You'll find them and everything will be okay for you."

The Slayer blinked as she scanned the darkness, catching movement in the shadows. "Find who?" she asked absently.

"The Deceivers," Loki answered without thinking. Instantly he closed his eyes and cursed himself. He let his arm fall from her shoulders as she turned to him with suspicion.

"I never told you I was looking for them—" she took a step back and swallowed hard. "Who the fuck are you?"

"There they are!" a voice shouted out of the darkness. With the tromping of wet boots, Niki and Loki found themselves faced with a dozen men and women, some holding guns, some holding radios and some holding their hands out and speaking quietly in Latin.

"Niki Valtaine, by the authority of the Council of Watchers, you are hereby taken into custody until such time as it is determined—"

Loki swept his arms down to the street and a roaring wall of flame rose up between the line of men and women and the Slayer and conjurer.

"I'm Logan," Loki insisted, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. "You can either trust me, or—"

With a hiss, the wall of flame died down and four women stepped out of the night, their hands raised before them.

"Back off," Loki commanded, but they waved off his power, and continued their approach. "I don't want to hurt you," Loki warned. "Seriously, because I don't know what that would do to history..."

"History?" Niki glanced quickly from the man in the khaki jacket to the advancing witches. "What the hell is going on?"

Loki looked from one witch to the next, judging each according to her power. Impressive, even for the Council. Behind them were men holding guns, ready to take out anything that got past the members of the coven.

His heart pounding, Loki closed his fists and closed his eyes. He knew how it was supposed to end, but he couldn't decide how much he was supposed to influence it. He obviously had no memory of this and didn't want to screw anything up... Then again, he'd never been one to second guess himself. "Fuck it."

Logan swept his hands down his body, dissolving the glamour which cloaked him. Standing now in a ruffling white silk shirt and tossing his shoulder length blond hair from his face, he faced off against the four witches who had come to end him. Unlike them, however, he knew he would be alive tomorrow. He also knew some things about Niki he would rather not tell her.

His eyes glowed yellow while the eyes of the witches darkened to black. The ground trembled beneath them and the rain intensified. With a pained buzzing, the streetlights brightened, then went out altogether.

--

Oz slowly stepped in front of Logan and the girl he was holding. His movements were careful and calculated. With a gentle but firm hand, he pulled the conjurer and teen back towards the bedroom door, all three of them keeping their eyes on the demon which watched from near the window.

"Give it to me," the muscular form ordered, raising the branch it held and shaking it menacingly.

"Give what to you?" Logan asked bravely, taking his cue from Oz and maneuvering Hanna behind himself.

"It thinks you're Loki. It wants Wilson," Oz whispered over his shoulder as he stood in a defensive position between the two Kilpatricks and the thing which had come to kill them all.

"Who's Wilson?" Logan whispered back. "You never got that far."

"We have to go," Oz warned. "We're no match for this thing."

Their eyes all remained locked and they all took a step back as the Timekeeper took a step forward. As it moved forward, it seemed to move through a dozen shadows and each time it came again into the light it was slightly different: Beginning as a bull of a creature with muscles upon muscles, it became, upon the completion of its stride, a wizened old man, with a beard reaching down to the cord which tied the waist of its cloak. Its eyes were sunken and grey, its branch bare and brown.

"Give it to me," the creature commanded, taking another step forward. This time it changed again, cycling through skeletal and halting at the strength and slenderness of youth. It shook its stick again and this time Logan felt a distinct pressure between his temples. He blinked but the shaking and quivering of the leaves continued, filling his brain with pressure.

"Dad..." Hanna had her eyes closed now and her face was buried in his shirt. He knew she felt the pain as well. But it wasn't enough. He was scared, for sure, but his toes were anything but cold and his palms were clammy. He was empty. Not now he pleaded, glancing up with a resentful appeal to the ceiling he had cursed earlier.

"Get her out of here," Oz ordered, his gaze fixed on the advancing demon. The young red haired man took no further steps back. "I'll hold him off until Loki gets here."

"What are you gonna—" Logan began, then watched as the young man before him began to change. Logan turned and pulled his daughter from the room, not particularly curious to see what Oz was when he was threatened. Logan had seen enough good people turned into monsters for one lifetime, himself included.

He hurried down the dark stairs, Hanna still clutched against him. He realized once he got to the bottom that he had no idea where she would be safe. The safest place he could think of was with him — but that was the least safe place while this demon was hunting him.

He glanced over his shoulder and heard a wolf howl. He shuddered, not sure if it was Oz or the demon making the noise. Something fell hard upstairs. Logan flung the door open and led Hanna into the back of the car. It was still raining.

Pausing and looking at her face through the car window which now separated them, he thought hard. Get in the car. Drive away. Save Hanna. He looked back up over his shoulder to the dark window which was Hanna's bedroom. Go back upstairs. Fight the demon.

He looked back down to the glass and the eyes of his daughter. He knew she could read his face. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was going to do. He slowly inclined his head as an unspoken apology. With a snap of his fingers and a twist of light, he was back in her room, grabbing the demon by the back of the shoulders, trying to throw him as one would throw a bus.

With an earsplitting scream, the now skeletal demon turned and struck Logan across the face with the dead stick, sending him to the ground. From there Logan could see a great wolf pounce. A sudden nausea overwhelmed him and he blacked out.

--

Loki reached out in the darkness as the chanting of Latin grew louder. He took the Slayer by the hands and took a deep breath. "Time to decide," he announced, his tone remaining patient. "Trust me or don't."

Niki swallowed. It wasn't Logan. She knew that now. He looked like Logan... almost exactly like Logan. But it wasn't Logan. A terrible though made her shiver inside the warmth of her leather jacket. One of the Deceivers? The sickening feeling which she knew would accompany the identity was there. Was this the real Logan? Had the other Logan been a deception? "Trust you?" She asked with unbelievable disdain.

Loki flashed a grin. "Good enough for me." He gripped her hands and pulled her against him, engulfing them both in a twist of light.

Before she could register what had happened and resist, she was looking at him in a new light. No longer the orange glow of distant streetlights, but the grey light of dawn. He stood with her hands in his, his grin still spread across his face.

"You're here," he said still gazing into her eyes. He watched as she looked around. Her eyes widened as she turned from him and saw that they were standing in front of a large warehouse. The warehouse. The one she remembered. "Thanks for trusting me."

She jerked her hands from his and took a step back. "You're one of them? A Deceiver?"

Loki laughed out loud. "I'm a liar," he pulled a silver pocket watch from his khaki pants glanced at the time, "that'll have to do." As she continued to watch him with uncertain caution, he grabbed her by the shoulder and drew her in for a long kiss. He finally pulled his lips close to her ear and whispered. "It's been a blast."

With a smile to have seen her again for the last time, he was gone in a twist of light.

Niki turned to the big double doors of the warehouse and took in a deep breath. She would have to tell Logan... if there really was a Logan, that someone was masquerading as him. She would have to tell him... she really would...

But her feet carried her towards the warehouse, her eyes fixed on it. Whatever that demon with the stick had done... it had been the most accurate predictor of the future Niki had ever known. Seers... witches... prophets... none of them would have told her she would be standing before this warehouse now. None of them could tell her what she would find inside. For all their foresight, they were as in the dark as she was. But they weren't here. It wasn't their futures they predicted and argued over, gambled with and dished out in random code. It was hers.

Another silk shirt ruffled in the cool breeze not far away. The figure wearing this shirt was dark, with close cropped black hair, his pants black and his collar tied with blue silk. He watched, rapt, as Niki reached for the handle of the door.

With a little smirk, he turned away and headed for his appointment. It was almost time.

--

Blind and Dangerous - Act 4

Oz launched himself at the tank of a demon, catching a muscular forearm in his jaws. He tore and growled, slashing with claws and gnashing with teeth, but the robed guardian of the timeline didn't seem to budge. He took the werewolf by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the bedroom.

Logan dragged himself to his feet and willed with all his might that his feet freeze and his hands burn. Nothing. He delivered a shockingly powerful punch nonetheless, succeeding only in bruising his knuckles. With a shout of forced anger, he grabbed the wrist that held the branch and twisted it, trying to force the demon to drop it.

The muscular face melted away as it turned to look at him; the eyes sinking back into the eye sockets and the flesh shriveling against the skull. It let out an angry and high pitched scream, opening its bony jaw wide for Logan to see the nothingness inside its mouth.

Logan gritted his teeth and twisted hard, succeeding in making the skeleton drop the branch. The leaves, quickly browning and dying away, brushed across the man's wrist as it fell and Logan cried out in pain, sinking to his knees as the nausea took him again.

Images flashed before his brain and his eyes widened. They weren't coherent images. Like impressions of memories... And he couldn't stop them. Mixed in with them were real memories: memories of things he had done, things which had happened.

I wish you knew what it was like to lose everyone you ever loved! Matt looked up from the smoking pit. Logan watched as he himself led Hanna away from the battle scarred house. But the memory continued. He remembered how Matt had reached for the amulet sitting in the center of the circle of blackened earth. Halfrek wasn't dead. A vengeance demon couldn't be killed by a mortal. These were things that Matt knew as he carried the amulet inside and stared at the ruins of his house.

Logan twisted on the floor of Hanna's bedroom, gut twisting nausea torturing his body as memories of things which hadn't happened tortured his mind.

Oz throttled the branch-less demon, slashing and mauling the wizened old thing, shoving him through ages and stages of life, always taking advantage of the weaker periods: crafting his attack to match the weakness of his enemy, as Loki had taught him.

Logan's eyes fluttered open and he saw the branch lying on the carpet, the carpet rotting beneath it. A foul smell was coming from the piece of wood. With a sinister resolve, Logan got up onto his knees and reached for the source of the memories.

--

Michael stood next to the curtain, gazing down at the sleeping patient. He wouldn't make it through the night, Michael knew. That wasn't the reason the man from Baltimore was here, though. He had been given the gift of controlling the mechanism of life and death, but only for his own convenience. It would do no good to get a time mixed up and wind up visiting someone who was already dead. His job was too important for that. If necessary he would pull people back from the edge to do what he did. Once he was done, if it was their time, he would let them go.

The tradition of Michael the Archangel was something Mike from Baltimore hadn't really paid much attention to as a child. He had gotten the crash course, naturally, when some Power somewhere had sent a being known as Clifford to call Mike to his destiny.

The ridiculous shirt and tie had come with the job, as well as a mission statement which put in simple terms what was to be a long eternity of thankless service to mankind: Defend the souls of the faithful, now and at the hour of their death.

There were many manifestations of Michael around the world, Mike was told — not as though every person was visited before they died: only those whose souls were in jeopardy from the evil which plagued the world. It was a service: one for which Mike had been drafted and told he would do until he himself found his replacement.

Defender of the innocent, warrior to stand before the children in the face of the darkness. It had all sounded very noble back in nineteen forty one. He hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to simply get close to the dying. He had volunteered as a medic in the Second World War and had been to Vietnam. But he had had his fill of war. There was plenty of soul-threatening evil here in New York City.

Given a lifetime of watching death and hearing the cries of souls, Michael had come to an understanding with his destiny and with whatever Power demanded the lives he watched end. Michael had taken to helping others come to terms with their loved ones' deaths, most recently as the grief counselor of Dodd Junior Highschool, Freeport. And for the second time in a lifetime of thankless service, he had discovered the Powers' cruel sense of humor.

If Cliff were here now, Michael would gladly help him die.

Anyway, he had directives to perform. Just a few more things to do here, he felt it in his bones. He glanced over at Rachel who looked like she would fall asleep on her feet.

"You've been here all night?" he asked with concern.

She nodded groggily, looking down at the chart and squinting. "I had some reading to do," she admitted absently. With a frown, she looked over to the man in the silk shirt. "You're here early."

Michael shrugged. "I came in when I heard there was a boy from Dodd who had died. I'm probably going to be getting some calls from parents." He watched as her eyes widened. "You didn't know?" Of course she didn't. Matt had never seen the inside of an ambulance.

She shook her head. "I– I should get home..." she quickly looked around, finally dumping the chart at the feet of the unconscious patient. "I... I need to be home."

She hurried out of the ICU blinking rapidly. She got to her coat and pulled it on, hearing the thump of the open manilla envelope as it fell to the floor from within the coat. She stared down at it, the white of several of the pages showing from the open end. Blink. Oh, yeah. She shook her head again to clear the confusing events which had placed her here now.

She had spent the night scanning the document given to her by Marcus Hamilton. There really was nothing incriminating about Logan's actions since the trial, at least, not that the investigator had picked up on. He had stayed out late a couple of times and there were several dates during which the P.I. Hadn't been able to locate her husband, but his conclusions had been fairly decisive. If there had been anything between Niki Valtaine and Logan Kilpatrick, it had ended two years ago, like Logan had said.

The thickness and weight of the document was like a burden of guilt now as Rachel carried it with her to the door. She stopped, looking down at the paper in her hand. After a long pause, she reached out and dropped the entire envelope of pages into the trash can near the door. Without another thought, she pushed the door open and marched out into the main hallway, pushing past the inpatients and starting out into the grey of the early morning.

--

Logan took hold of the stick with a shaking hand. It burned as if he had taken hold of fire itself. He resisted the reflex to drop it and closed his eyes, cutting through the onslaught of memories the stick forced on him. With every word Oz had used during meditation guiding him, Logan separated from inside himself the hot and the cold. The natural differentiation caused by his rage or terror; Logan forced its reversal. He could now feel his sock feet smoldering, his face numb with cold and his breath coming as fog. His hands, too, were ice-cold, the fire of the stick diminishing.

When he stood completely again to face the duel which was still raging, he had a quiet confidence in himself again. Master, perhaps, of his power at last? He raised the stick which he now held easily and shook it at the demon locked in battle with the wolf which was Oz.

Oz was thrown back and the demon shrieked, its muscles slithering and bunching beneath its skin. The burlap robe finally falling away as the demon's body grew to unnatural proportions.

Logan glanced back over his shoulder and saw Oz, shirtless and in human form, getting up off the floor with a grunt. "Break the stick," he said forcefully, holding one arm which appeared to be broken.

Logan looked back at the frozen branch, the leaves dusted with frost and icy crystals snaking across the bark. He squeezed the thing tight, feeling it bend in his palm. But a massive hand caught him in the throat and he was lifted from the floor.

Oz's eyes widened as he watched the hulk of a demon tear the stick from Logan's frosty hand. It opened its huge mouth wide and roared, tightening its grip on the conjurer's throat.

With a twist of light and the sound of great beating wings, two figures stood on either side of the massive creature, both wearing white silk shirts. The blond haired one drove a massive burst of electricity into the demonic arm holding the stick and the black haired one caught Logan in his arms as the demon dropped him.

Loki slashed lightning across the demonic face, catching the thick arm in the irresistible grip of an invisible hand. With a shriek, he snapped the arm free of the body, watching as the muscles dissolved beneath the skin and a thin, skeletal, naked figure clutched at its shoulder where the arm had been severed.

Loki tugged the branch free of the bony hand and snapped it over his knee, the demon screaming in agony. Before their eyes, the skeletal figure melted into a true skeleton, its bones eventually collapsing as sand to the already ruined carpet.

Oz came to Loki's side and was handed half of the stick. "Souvenir," the conjurer said dryly. "Good work." They both turned and found Michael holding the unmoving body of Logan on the floor.

"He okay?" Oz asked, his face showing his confusion. "Uh, I mean, he has to be, right? Cause... you know... you're still here." He turned to Loki who merely shrugged.

"He'll be fine," Michael said, running his hand down the side of Logan's face. "It's quite obviously not his time yet." Logan coughed as he sat up, massaging his throat where the demon's hand had crushed it.

"Michael?" he said weakly. "Am I dead?"

Loki laughed. "We'll be fine," he said dismissively. He took Michael by the elbow and stood him up to face the conjurer. "He's too choked up right now, so I'll say it: I appreciate everything you've done for me — everything you will do."

Michael nodded once at the gratitude. He took Oz's arm and touched the spot where the break was, setting and healing the bone. Looking from Oz to the wizard, he swallowed hard. "I have one more thing to give you," he said with no trace of a smile on his face.

Loki gestured to his past self who lay on the floor, sucking in painful breaths. "Give away."

Michael shook his head. "No, something to give to you." To Loki's frown, Michael slowly lowered his head, as if bowing. He took hold of the silk collar of his shirt and slipped the blue silk tie from around his neck, pulling it over his head and draping it in Loki's hands.

The cynicism and coarse amusement faded as the angel laid the gift in his arms. Loki's mouth hung open for a minute or two, uncertain of what to say. "Seriously?" he said with awe. Michael nodded. With infinite reverence and care, Loki pulled the tie over his head and adjusted it around his neck. It was a perfect fit. He swallowed and turned to Oz who was watching with a look of reserved judgment. "How do I look?" The conjurer asked, turning a little from side to side. Oz shrugged a little.

"Now, don't fuck it up." They turned at the beating of wings and Michael was gone. Loki blinked, amazed at the volumes of unspoken authority and responsibility which the blue silk tie represented. A demon had given him the shirt, an archangel the matching tie... and he had picked out the pants himself. That summed up his existence completely.

Loki looked down at Logan who was slowly getting to his feet, trying not to swallow as it might be painful. "Here," the man in the new tie said sympathetically. He ran his hand down the man's throat, the bruising vanishing.

"So, I do get the hang of that..." Logan noted, a little smile crossing his face. Loki answered it with a troubled look. Logan blinked. "What?"

The conjurer from the future looked from Oz, in many ways his chaperone, back to the self he had sworn not to change. "It doesn't have to be the way I remember it," Loki said carefully. He was breaking every rule he had ever read about. But the Timekeeper was dead, at least for now, so who was going to stop him? "You still have time to put things right..."

Oz took the conjurer by the sleeve of his silk shirt. "It's time. We have to go." Loki nodded and turned to leave, but the hand of his former self stopped him.

"Hold on," Logan said insistently. "There's one little thing you've left out. You said we were protecting an innocent. Who's this Wilson guy I nearly died for?"

The barest hint of a grin caught Loki's eyes and a blue light glinted in them as a bright blue portal sputtered open before the conjurer and the werewolf. Loki turned back to face the young lawyer, pulling his hands apart and summoning what had started all this, but for safety sake couldn't be seen. A glowing red ball fell into his palm, its surface smokey and swirling. It was about the size of a volley ball and was the source of Loki's ability to sojourn in other time periods.

"Meet Wilson," Loki said with a little nod.

Logan's eyes widened, his jaw dropping. "You... son of a bitch!" He decked Loki hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling back into the portal. Oz laughed out loud and stepped through after him.

"Never fails," the young man called out as the portal snapped closed behind them.

Logan looked around the ruined bedroom with amazement. His future self was a complete asshole. He touched his throat absently. Moving to the window he saw the sun rising over the tops of the houses across the street. He stepped over the small pile of sand and peered down into the driveway.

Hanna stood near the front door as the little brown car pulled out onto the street with a screeching of tires. Logan frowned: Rachel was at the wheel. He watched her take off back down the street, following the bus she had ridden to get here from the hospital.

Logan squinted as the rays of sunlight caught him in the eyes. Where the hell was she going? He tried but couldn't suppress a yawn. He looked down at the clock radio on Hanna's night stand and groaned. He had to be at work in a few hours.

--

Rachel burst through the doors of the office of Marcus Hamilton, Liaison to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart. She strode past the man who was standing inside the door and planted her hands on Hamilton's desk.

"I want you to stop investigating my husband," she said with a tone she hoped conveyed exactly how much she was not going to take "no" for an answer.

Hamilton looked up from the folders he was reading and looked for a moment from the man just inside the door to Rachel herself. "Oh?"

The woman nodded sharply. "I was told your investigator would be discreet." She glared down at Hamilton as the man by the door slowly approached. "I just talked to my daughter and she's terrified because strangers are showing up in her bedroom."

"I assure you it wasn't me." Rachel turned on the man speaking, cocking her head as if daring him to speak again. He was a daring man, though he didn't look it. "And I can prove it."

"Rachel Kilpatrick," Marcus stood from his desk and gestured to the slight young man dressed in a sharp Armani suit, "I'd like you to meet Aaron Shields, your private investigator."

"Before you terminate our arrangement," Shields said, striding around to Hamilton's desk and picking up yet another manila envelope, "I've just discovered something you might want to see..." He slid the contents of the envelope across the desk for all to see.

Though the control of time and movement across history has remained a function of mystical powers, the perception of time is a power that everyone holds. In moments of perfect vengeance or when death is near, time can slow. When the marriage between reality and continuity is questioned, time is the first casualty.

Time slowed now as Rachel stared down at the evidence the investigator had collected. These six photos did what the two hundred pages she had already read could not do: With a trembling hand which seemed to travel in slow motion, she took hold of her wedding band, her eyes stinging from the tears which wouldn't come.

Feeling numb from head to toe, she tugged the wedding band from her finger, letting her enchanted charm fall to the desk with a ringing like a small bell. Her eyes never moved from the pictures on the desk.

"Will you be wanting these?" Hamilton asked bluntly, sliding a new set of documents over the lewd images spread across the desk.

Rachel slowly brought her vision to focus on the new documents. She scanned the words at the top and her eyes rested on the single word of interest. Divorce. Her hands still trembling, she slowly nodded, taking Hamilton's hand and allowing him to shake it. He had never shaken her hand before, but she was too numb to realize why.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Hamilton smiled as she stared blankly at the various ruins of her marriage scattered over the lawyer's desk. Marcus nodded to Aaron who also shared the smile. Hamilton gave Rachel's hand another good shake. "We'll be sending you our bill."

--

Niki Valtaine stepped into the darkness of the warehouse, her head high. She stopped just inside the door and took a short breath, readying herself for whatever she found. She clenched and unclenched her fists, testing how weary all of last night's activities had left her.

With one final breath of courage, she started forward, psychologically prepared to meet her destiny — whatever that meant. Each step forward was a testament to her faith in Whistler as a man of honor. Each second she didn't turn and run was a shout to destiny about how much she had changed in the last two years.

Her footsteps slowed and stopped as she came to the rear wall and the doorway there which led into another section of the warehouse. In her memory, she had gone no further than this. She stood patiently, her head held high, waiting for whatever would come for her.

With the reechoing sound of cruel laughter, two figures stepped out of the doorway, still obscured in the darkness which cloaked most of the cavernous building.

"Niki," said a familiar voice, sounding as though it were spoken from smiling lips. "You have been deceived."

To Be Continued...


	14. Loss for Words

Loss for Words - Act 1

Niki watched as the man and the woman stepped out of the darkness. She shifted uneasily from foot to foot. As prepared as she had convinced herself she was... she simply wasn't prepared enough.

Joshua Valtaine stepped out of the shadow first, taking his wife's hand and leading her into the dim light offered by the cracks in the high boarded up window. He appraised Niki for several seconds before crossing his arms with impatience.

"Well...? Aren't you going to say something?"

Impossible. And terrifying. Heartbreaking. Heartbroken, Niki was frozen to the spot, her eyes aching from the intensity with which they stared at the impossible before her. She finally remembered breathing and drew in a breath of stale air. "Dad?"

Joshua smiled. Beamed was probably a better word. "We're so proud of you, Niki. You've done it."

Samantha shared her husband's smile and took another step towards the motionless Slayer. "We were so worried about you... but here you are." She looked like she wanted to embrace Niki, but she stopped a few paces away, turning back to Joshua.

The man uncrossed his arms. "We always knew you would find us again."

Niki blinked. The blink threw everything into perspective. She shook her head and took a step back. "No..." she seemed troubled by something unnamed, as if she couldn't quite drag it through the shock of seeing her parents again. "No, you're not them. They're dead."

"Knicks, you've always known we were with you. We've always been with you." Samantha reached out and took Niki in her arms. The Slayer wrapped her arms tight around her mother, squeezing tight even though she knew it couldn't be real. It felt real.

"It's a trick," Niki whispered to herself, hugging her mother tighter. "It's not real."

Joshua inclined his head. "How can you say we're not real, sweety? We're standing right here."

Niki pulled away from Samantha, holding her at arm's length. She swallowed hard. "Y– you're some kind of deception... or– or this is a dream or something. You're not them."

"Niki..." Samantha Valtaine began, her voice gentle and soothing.

"No!" Niki closed her eyes and shook her head to force back the instinct to hug her mother again. She gave the woman a shove and raised her fists for a fight.

Samantha's gentle voice melted away and she walked backwards to the man near the shadow. "You're right." She glanced to Joshua who smirked.

"We thought we could fool you a bit longer than that... but we'll take what we can get."

"Who the fuck are you?" Niki demanded, clenching her jaw so tight her teeth hurt. She tried to hold her fists as tight but the strength seemed to have gone from them.

Joshua smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know?" As the Slayer watched, his face distorted and he morphed into Jesse Trent. Niki's gaze was locked on him while Samantha's features melted into Jessica Burkov, the seer from the mall.

"Maybe we're them..." Jessica offered, crossing her arms and smiling at the expression on Niki's face. She took on the tone of voice and repeated the seer's advice to the Slayer, "The Deceivers aren't a specific set of people or demons..." Then she laughed out loud, her cruel gaze on the stunned Slayer. "I had you going the whole time. I could have told you the Deceivers were the Yankees and you'd have believed me."

"You're not her either," Niki's eyes narrowed as she dulled the uncomfortable feelings inside. "What are you really?"

"Of course we're them," Jesse said with a grin. He looked down at the body he wore, touching his arms and his chest. "This body felt pretty good too..." he grabbed his crotch and grunted, "you should know."

"Shut the fuck up," Niki warned, "You're not him."

"The genuine article," Jesse argued, opening his arms innocently. She was silent for a moment as she looked at him with a nauseating uncertainty. "One drink and I promise I'll go away," he said with the grin she remembered from the café where they met.

"You're the Deceivers," Niki said to ground herself. She looked away from him and steeled herself again. She stared at the concrete floor for a long moment, then looked back up and tensed.

"We are," Logan smiled, "anyone who has ever lied." He turned to the woman beside him. Another Niki Valtaine stood beside him, wearing an identical black leather jacket and a self satisfied smile.

"And we're here to make your life a living hell."

The real Slayer glared, swallowing her discomfort. "What are you going to do? Confuse me to death?"

The thing that looked like Logan laughed. "Hell no! We don't want to kill you: that's not why we were summoned."

Niki Valtaine's features melted back to the form of Jessica. "We're here to let you know that you have been deceived. That's all."

Niki blinked. "That's all?" She scoffed, still tense and ready for a physical fight. "Shit, I knew that already. Are you just tuning in?"

Jessica cocked her head, a little insulted. "I don't think you understand. The one who summoned us, he doesn't want you dead — he wants retribution. All of the deceptions you've lived, they were all to get you here, now. We're here to tell you: You have been deceived."

Logan stepped forward, his body and voice melting into those of Richard Addison. "Stupid girl. She still doesn't understand." His tone was as disappointed and condescending as it was when he was alive. "From this moment on, you cannot trust. Not anyone, not anything."

Jessica smiled broadly, her eyes lit up with glee. "You can't trust what you see... what you know... where you are..."

In a haze of confusion, Niki was blinded by a sudden light. Within a second, she realized it was daylight. With the furious honking of a car's horn, she spun around and realized she was standing in the middle of a street. She dove out of the way of the oncoming traffic and landed hard on the dark concrete floor of the warehouse.

Jessica and Addison were laughing at her, the old Brit clapping his hands in approval. "Now do you understand the ramifications of deception? With nothing but lies we can destroy your life, Niki, without even killing you."

"Maybe the traffic light's green, maybe it's not. Maybe that's a vampire, maybe it's not. Maybe that's water in your glass... maybe it's gasoline. Maybe you only dreamt killing fifty school kids, maybe you didn't." Jessica took another step forward and shifted back to the form of Samantha Valtaine. She reached out to help Niki off the floor. "Point is, Knicks, self-doubt is the number one enemy of screw ups. It's going to eat you alive — more effectively than any demon could. See, when a demon is done eating you, you're dead... but when we're finished with you, you'll be a huddled mass in an asylum, begging for death."

Addison smiled, stroking his chin contemplatively as it changed back to the face of Joshua, Niki's father. "And that's what the one who summoned us wants. He doesn't want a quick death: he wants you to suffer—"

"Who the fuck is this prick, anyway? What the hell did I do to him?" Niki stood and brushed off the dust from her jeans.

Samantha laughed, stepping aside and looking into the darkness of the doorway. "It could be anyone... you have so many enemies. It could be him—" Niki's mother glanced back to the Slayer as a third figure emerged from the darkness.

Niki's eyes widened as the silver letters on the black shirt caught the light. KISS. Pearce said nothing, only looking hard into the Slayer's eyes. She shook her head. "No, I killed him."

Joshua held a finger to his lips. "Oh, yes. Of course... at least, you thought you did..." The Slayer glanced at him sharply. He laughed warmly. "No, no, I'm only messing with you... he's dead—" the image of Pearce dissolved into thin air. "But it could be him..."

Niki frowned and turned back to the doorway. A glowering vampire in a dark Armani suit stepped out, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. It took Niki an instant longer to recognize him as the Creep. The mastermind behind the demon civil war whom she had killed... or at least, thought she'd killed two years ago.

"Or him," Samantha grinned. The Creep grew taller and more muscular as it took on the features of Adrian Keller, the military lieutenant who had helped he defeat the Creep. "It's not as though you two parted on friendly terms."

After staring at the image for a minute or two the Slayer shook her head with impatience. "Yeah, okay, I get your point: I've pissed a lot of people off. It's not like I'm expecting a medal." She began circling around the two Deceivers, her fists finding the strength they had been wanting. "But the thing I've noticed is... during your little sales pitch all you've really showed me is that there is some actual ass I can kick... and let's face it," she flashed a threatening smile, "that's one thing I do well."

Joshua smiled, vanishing into thin air and snapping back into existence six feet to the Slayer's left. "Good luck with that," he laughed. "How do you plan on fighting something when you can't be sure you know where it is?" He walked casually back towards Samantha and passed his hand through her form, grinning as another image of her tapped him on the shoulder from behind for emphasis. They both laughed as if it were the funniest joke ever told.

Niki glanced around the warehouse quickly, finding several things she thought might be useful. Darting past the two laughing Deceivers, she grabbed a large steel barrel and launched it through the air, sending it crashing through the boards which covered the window.

A bright stream of light flooded the end of the warehouse and Niki turned away to save her vision. Turning quickly back to her adversaries, she saw they were lit but cast no shadows. Glancing around, she saw two dark moving shapes about twenty feet away; nothing but shadows in the morning sun.

Niki snatched a length of steel pipe and dashed up a tall stack of crates, somersaulting in the air and landing between the shadows of her true enemies. She brought the steel pipe down on one of them, hearing a grunt as she held it to the ground.

Glancing behind her, she saw the images of Joshua and Samantha disappear. Beneath the cold steel of the bar, the form of a demon took shape, solidifying as the object which cast the shadow. Niki pressed the bar into its neck and bared her teeth.

"Lie to me now, fuck face," she challenged, staring down into the scaly and mottled face of one of the things responsible for Megan Brandon's death. Feeling the other thing approaching, she swept her leg out behind her and brought it to the ground, catching it by the arm in an iron grip and sliding it across the floor so that she held to two of them shoulder to shoulder.

"You can kill us both," the one under the steel pipe sputtered, his short pointed teeth slicing his words, "but we'll come back. We'll take other bodies... the Deception is invincible."

Niki let go of the pipe and took the demon's head in her hands, bringing it close to her face with a look of hatred. "Say goodnight, fuck face." With a snap she broke its neck. Looking over she saw the other demon roll away from her and scramble to its feet. It ran hard for the door at the back of the warehouse.

Niki took the steep pipe and threw it like a sword, watching as it slipped through the hollow image of the fleeing demon and bounced with a clang off the far wall. The Slayer frowned. Crap. She whirled around as laughter moved past her from behind — laughter in the sunlight without a source. Any other person in any other circumstance might have found that a pleasant thing...

Niki swallowed and closed her eyes, stepping over the corpse of the Deceiver and raising her fists in the darkness behind her eyelids. She could do this... it wasn't her time to die. It might be her time to get a serious ass-kicking, though. She swung her fist at the sound of footsteps and it swept through air.

Ignoring the sounds of laughter and the deceptive direction in which they led her, she concentrated only on her instinct. The thing was here, giving away false directions, false clues. To what end? Not to kill her — it had made that clear. To toy with her? After she had killed the first one the game seemed to have ended. To escape...?

Niki ran through the darkness behind her eyes and leapt off the ground at the last instant as she came to back wall. She landed on the wall, kicked off and twisted in mid air, scissor kicking the invisible demon in the face as it approached the door's threshold. Niki landed on one knee, her eyes opening as she heard the thing hit the ground.

In the blink of an eye, she had its head between her strong hands, ready to tear its very physical head off. "Who summoned you?" she demanded, squeezing its head tightly.

With a gasp its features melted into Niki's mother. Samantha sucked in a breath and coughed pitifully. "Knicks..." she managed with a betrayed look in her eyes. "You wouldn't hurt me, would you?"

Niki clenched her teeth and pulled the thing up and under her arm, holding it in a powerful headlock so she didn't have to look into its face. "You have five seconds to tell me who summoned you or you will be as dead as my mother."

The demon coughed again, struggling for breath. "Two and three—" the demon pleaded weakly.

"Five," Niki finished her five second count and broke the demon's neck with a jerk of her elbow. The scaly body slumped limp under her arm. Niki let it fall to the concrete floor, standing up and looking at her long shadow in the rays of the morning sun.

With a grim smile, and deadly eyes, she tugged at the collar of her black leather jacket and strode from the cavernous warehouse into the bright New York City morning.

--

Logan Kilpatrick pulled the blinds closed on his bedroom window. Hanna lay wearily under the sheets of his and Rachel's bed. It was almost six in the morning, but neither of them had slept any last night, what with the demon attacking and all.

Hanna's bedroom was somewhat disturbed, with the remains of a demon in a pile near the window and several spots on the carpet looking like they'd seen better days. Since Rachel had taken the car earlier, Logan thought Hanna could sleep in their bed. He pulled the thick curtains across the closed blinds, plunging the room into near darkness.

"Dad?" came the girl's voice, small and a little scared, from the darkness.

Instead of answering, Logan sat down on the edge of the big bed and brushed a strand of brown hair from his daughter's face. He kissed two fingers and touched her forehead, thankful in that moment for everything which had given her to him.

"Could you..." she asked, looking at him as she had when she had been a decade younger and confident her daddy could defeat any monster a dark room could spawn.

Needing no more from her, he closed his eyes and she hers. The secret between them, that he sometimes still sang her to sleep, was one not even Rachel knew and was a secret he knew Hanna could bear to keep.

"Hello darkness my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again,

Because a vision softly creeping,

Left its seeds while I was sleeping,

And the vision, which was planted in my brain,

Still remains within the sounds of silence..."

Once Hanna was deep asleep, Logan stepped silently from the room, closing the door behind him. He was loath to leave the house with her alone in it, but he had some business to take care of...

--

Logan stepped into the most comfortable place he had ever been. Dark and a little dank and smelling of cigarettes and beer. The Nail Biter was officially open for business again. Having been completed, it was now enjoying a tide of regulars who were taking shelter here while the sun bathed the waking world.

Logan looked around. There were too many people to just stand and look. A demon like the one he was looking for would have to be here for business. And he needed to talk business...

He slid onto a stool at the bar without a glance at the figures to either side. He had been out of demon circles for more than a year now and he didn't expect to recognize anyone.

"Logan," said a familiar voice, against all odds.

Logan slowly turned and his tired and business-like manner melted away. "Niki!" He grinned and pulled her into a rough hug. "How have you been?"

Niki let herself be hugged by the person she was now relatively certain she hadn't seen in months. Hadn't been intimate with last night. "How was your night?" she asked anyway, testing.

Logan laughed. "Interesting. Very... unique." He took the beer the barkeep offered. "Yours?"

Niki turned back to the scotch she was nursing. "Unique," she agreed. To his interested glance she lowered her gaze to conceal the smile. "I have to tell you, Logan, there's somebody out there who looks like you—"

Logan nodded knowingly. "Yeah, I know. He's... uh... he's gone."

Niki slowly let that sink in. "Oh. Okay." There was a long silence between them as the rest hung unspoken in the smoky air. "Whoever he was, he was a way better kisser than you," she said at last to break the tension.

Logan couldn't help but laugh. That girl was insatiable. And he was apparently irresistible, in any decade. "Good for him," the lawyer said through a grin. "And good for you for... looking so happy about something—" he raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What's that all about?"

Niki's grin broadened. "I've just fixed a little problem I've been having."

Logan nodded, bringing the beer to his lips. At the first taste his taste buds told him it was far too early for beer. Hell, he thought, it was still last night as far as he was concerned, and would be until he got a good ten hours of sleep. "I'm here to fix a problem too..." He tugged the sleeve of the barkeep who had turned to replace some liquor bottles.

The demon turned around and crossed his arms with a frown. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a demon," he said easily. There was no reason to let the bartender's mood affect his own.

The barkeep snorted. "Look to your right," he suggested and turned back to his work. Logan looked to his right and saw a tall, ugly creature. He chuckled once.

"I'm looking for a _specific_ demon," Logan began again. "Her name is Halfrek."

The barkeep turned around again. "She comes here sometimes..." he looked Logan up and down. "She doesn't deal with the likes of you, though."

"She already has," Logan challenged with a little more ferocity in his voice, "that's what I need to talk to her about." But the barkeep shrugged and turned away again.

"She's not here now: Day job."

Logan sighed. Since first meeting Halfrek at Matt's house, he had done a little research and discovered that a vengeance demon is the only one who can reverse her own curses. And since Matt had recently been cursed with death... he would find her eventually and would not let her off as easily as he did last time.

Niki emptied the last of the scotch into her mouth and winced as it went down. If it hadn't been for the loan Whistler had given her, she would be sitting outside this place right now, just waiting for her destiny to come along. But the demon had been in an unusually generous mood this morning and was now busy talking to some demons in one of the far corners.

The Slayer set the glass down and patted Logan on the back. "Well... I think I'm going to get some fresh air."

Logan nodded. "I'm only staying for one beer, then I'll be heading for the office. I think I should actually get a small claims case done this week." Niki laughed and turned for the door.

Logan took a mouthful of beer and swallowed it behind a wry smile. There was something different, he was sure. Maybe it was having seen his future self — knowing he had at least twenty years of life ahead of him... or maybe it was knowing he'd eventually learn to control his powers... but he felt more carefree and chipper than he had in months.

It also could have been the lack of sleep, since as the beer settled in his stomach, Logan blinked wearily for a moment, then let his head sink to the bar, unconscious.

--

Rachel was pale and quiet as she pulled on her smock and signed in for morning shift. The events of last night seemed like a dream... too awful to be real and yet too perfect to be unreal. The envelope with the incriminating photographs was sitting in the passenger seat of Logan's car. She had taken the car because she had needed to get to Hamilton's office as soon as possible. She had kept the car because all the unspoken rules between she and her husband had been shattered last night.

She stared down at the patient's chart with unseeing eyes. She blinked to focus, but every time she doused her vision with the darkness, the shocking word flashed into her mind again. Divorce. She had never really considered it before. Not really. Even when Logan had told her of his past affair... it had never really occurred to her that she might truly never forgive him. But now...

Hanna would find out. Oh God, Rachel closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into them, trying force back the feelings. She started as a hand touched her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Rachel turned and saw Michael standing near the foot of the patient's bed. "I thought you went home?" he asked with a little frown. She noticed he wasn't wearing his customary blue silk tie. His white shirt looked empty without it.

"I... uh... yeah, I came back. I heard about Matt's — um..."

"Matt's death?" Michael offered. Rachel nodded.

"He must have been sent to another hospital though, he's not here." She glanced down at the chart and back up again. "Do you want to take me out for dinner?"

The question was so sudden it made Michael do a double take — an impressive feat for an angel. "What time should I pick you up?" he said after a short moment. Of course it was tonight.

A little forced smile crossed her face. "How about seven." She didn't think she could stand to be anywhere near Logan tonight, but she couldn't stand to take another shift here.

Michael raised an eyebrow and nodded once, turning his attention back to the unconscious man. "It's a date."

--

Loss for Words - Act 2

Logan groaned a little as the barkeep shook him on the shoulder to wake him up. He rubbed his forehead a little and stood, leaving his beer unfinished. He made his way through the crowded Biter, getting to the door and hoping he hadn't been passed out for too long.

When he got outside, he saw the sun was high in the sky and Niki was nowhere to be seen. He hailed a cab and it took him to his office in Manhattan. He hated using cabs when it wasn't an emergency, but he didn't know the bus routes since he usually had the car.

It didn't concern him, though, since even after waking up from an altogether insufficient coaster-nap, he was sailing on a quiet happiness with his life and its direction. Even the sight of Niki didn't bother him. He had no secrets anymore — at least, not any guilty secrets. Having met his future self was a secret he was sure merited being kept.

He rode the elevator up to his office in silence. When he got to his desk he found a document waiting for him. He sighed with contentment. He could handle another case. The last thing he would want right now would be to ruin his reputation with this firm by not living up to his–

Divorce. The word jumped out at him, right after his name on the dotted line. And there... that was Rachel's signature. He blinked rapidly. Was this... no. It all looked in order... some sort of a joke? Must be.

He glanced at the logo in the corner of the page. W&H. His heart began pounding. This was... this was... he blinked rapidly as if this were an after-blur in his vision and he just needed to clear it. But the document remained. He shook his head. No effect. The document just wouldn't leave.

Tawnie Fischer. He felt his hands growing hot. This was her doing: she was dead, but she was still punishing him for getting Niki out of jail. He slammed his palm down on the desk, drawing gazes from around the office. He ignored them, taking the pages in a hot hand. He stopped himself just short of incinerating it with his touch. Oz had taught him that much.

With smoldering eyes he stood from his desk and marched back towards the elevator. His finger stabbed the call button. It lit up but the car wasn't waiting for him. His toes flexing to keep them from freezing, he pounded the wall next to the call button, again drawing gazes from around the office.

By the time Logan got to the street, he was exercising all sorts of self control by not bursting into flames. He hailed the nearest taxi, the damn thing passing right by him without even noticing. The first intersection it came to it blew all four tires. The next taxi Logan focused his attention on stopped by the curb.

The lawyer got in the back seat and realized he had his fist tight around the folded document. "Archer Street, Freeport," Logan said tersely. Rachel better be home and she better have a fucking good explanation. No. Scratch that. He didn't want a good explanation. He wanted her to tell him it was a mistake or a joke or a threat or a test or anything but what it looked like. He swallowed, his anger sublimating into worry.

--

Niki walked past her old apartment building with a trace of regret. She missed it, for sure, having lived there since shortly after her parents' death, but it was very freeing having no address. Last night she had slept — or rather spent the night in the back of a demon bar which were dirt cheap to rent and could be paid for with any number of occult objects which she as a Slayer had no trouble getting her hands on — or prying from dead hands, as the case may be.

The demon underground was surprisingly accommodating for someone of her talents, assuming she didn't kill her hosts and didn't let on exactly who she was. She also had the hopes that being out of the human world would keep the Council off her back until that final battle she remembered.

She hadn't seen the stick-shaking demon since the night it had attacked her and though the details were faded a little, the content of the memory it had given her was very alive in her mind. The memory of the Deceivers had, after all, turned out to be accurate enough, regardless of the fact that she saw it coming, so she had no reason to believe her battle with the dark, horned demon would turn out any different.

The Slayer sat down on the curb near the apartment. As insane as it sounded, even to her, it wasn't her death that was bothering her. Maybe it was just that she wasn't thinking about it for fear of letting it get to her... or maybe it was what the prophet under the bridge had said, but there was something wrong with the Deceivers that Niki couldn't put her finger on.

The nasty thing about having killed them was never knowing for sure whether or not they were dead. The whole thing could have been an elaborate deception to throw her off their trail... but thinking like that led to the inevitable possibility that her entire life was an illusion; so she decided to believe that she had in fact killed two demons who were responsible for fucking with her life for the past year. But what she couldn't decide was whether they had acted alone. Was there really someone who had summoned them? Had Jessica been a Deceiver all along when she had advised the Slayer about those matters, or was that just what the demons had wanted her to think?

"This must be the doubt they were talking about," Niki muttered, her chin in her hands. With a rush, a bus tore past and stopped at the intersection. Niki blinked in surprise: There was one way to find out. Feeling in her pocket for the necessary loose change, the Slayer strode to the side of the bus and hopped on, just as the doors were opening. Several other people shuffled on and found various seats.

Niki took a seat which was empty, but one of the men who had boarded with her immediately changed seats and sat next to her. She rolled her eyes and slid over to the window, not used to guys actually changing seats to be near her since highschool. She avoided eye contact with him and made sure not to touch him in any way, conscious now of how much she must look like a desperate runaway or a street punk who would do anything for ten bucks. She was a street punk who could make girls out of men, she thought with a wry smile.

She rode the bus in silence to Hudson Mall to see if Jessica was still at her table, reading palms. If she was, then either at least some of what she had said might be true, or else the Deceivers couldn't be so easily killed.

When the bus stopped at the terminal, she had to slide over the bulky man in the cheap suit to get out, only to find that he stood and followed her. Grinding her teeth, she swore she would break at least one of his fingers at the first opportunity.

She stepped off the bus and felt him close behind. Rolling her shoulders and getting ready to take him down, Niki froze when she felt the barrel of a gun in the small of her back.

"Walk," the smooth voice said as the gun was pressed harder into the leather of Niki's jacket.

Despite training to avoid bullet wounds, and knowing how to disarm someone with a gun, there was little she could do in this instance which didn't risk someone else getting shot or the Slayer revealing her extraordinary abilities. So with a grim face, Niki did as she was told, stepping into the mall and walking straight into a crowd.

With the gun still in her back, Niki waited for what this man wanted next. If it was her he wanted, he would take her somewhere private, then she would beat the shit out of him and maybe stuff the gun up his ass. But something about the cold tone in his voice made her question this logic. Why would he have forced her into the crowded mall?

"Turn around," the voice suggested, completely free of the stress she expected from someone wielding a gun. Turning to face him, she could tell from his eyes that he didn't want sex, he wanted Niki Valtaine.

"Do I know you?" she asked skeptically, trying not to sound as annoyed as she really felt. Her destiny was screwed up enough without stalkers trying to kill her too.

"I doubt it," he said with an ice cold tone. The gun, Niki could see, was deep in the sleeve of his brown suit and he held it to her stomach as if he was just caressing her. "But I know you," he said icily. "And I know that I could never get this bullet into you—" he tapped the weight in his sleeve against her side, "—but you know that you couldn't stop me from getting at least one of these people..." he glanced around at the milling crowd. He wasn't whispering, but no one was paying attention.

Niki looked around at the random people walking by. She was sure she could get the gun from him, but with his finger on the trigger, he could certainly get off one shot. She swallowed. "Who the hell are you?" she asked calmly, absorbing the force of someone bumping into her from behind. The gun jabbed into her stomach.

"My name is Richard Forster," he said simply, as if they had just met at some conference. "You might recognize me from your trial... I was one of the prosecuting attorneys."

Niki shrugged and shook her head. "Sorry, wasn't paying that much attention." She saw that this cut him, but that he was working to keep his cool.

Forster smiled as if it didn't bother him. "It doesn't matter," he said amicably. "The point is that today you may have killed the demons—" he nodded towards the end of the promenade where Jessica's vacant table was, "—but the Deceiver lives."

The Slayer's head was spinning. Applauding the compactness of destiny: all the bad guys had shown themselves in forty eight hours and she hadn't done an ounce of work to find them, still she was kicking herself for not having seen it before. Maybe it was because... Yes, that was it: above everything else was a terrible disappointment.

"You?" she said with a sound of disgust. "You're the Deceiver? The one who fucking ruined my life? The one who's turned the Council against me... made me kill that innocent girl? You..." she was at a loss for words, "you fucking turd!" She stepped towards him, threateningly, the gun jabbing into her stomach. "You're nothing!" She couldn't believe the chunky, balding little man before her was her great enemy — causing her more grief than the Creep and his entire army. "You're fucking nobody!"

Forster bared his teeth. He gripped the gun tightly his fingers hurting from holding it so tight. He used all his self restraint not to shoot her in the gut. It wasn't time yet. He bit his lip and glared. "Not me," he said hotly, losing the cool he had been hanging onto. "I'm not the one living a lie to the world, thriving in the deceit that surrounds me — you are."

Niki scoffed. "Yeah, right. I'm the Deceiver. Very clever." She snatched the gun from his hand the instant she felt his finger leave the trigger. She dropped it to the floor between their feet and took his wrist in an iron grip. "I'm not fucking responsible for killing the Brandon girl and you know it."

Forster ignored his lost gun and the iron grip on his wrist. "You're not responsible, but that doesn't mean you didn't lie to cover it up. Why didn't you tell the truth at your trial? Why didn't you get up on the stand and tell the world you're a vampire slayer?"

Niki glared, exercising her slayer strength and nearly crushing the little man's wrist in her fist. The thought pounded through her mind, this is him? This is the one responsible for the fear and the doubt? It made her more angry than anything else. "You fucking know why!" she hissed, letting up on her grip just for a moment.

"Right," he said angrily, pulling his wrist free of her grip. "We couldn't have people knowing the truth, that would be inconvenient for you, wouldn't it?" He slipped his other hand deeper into the sleeve and took hold. "But your harmless little world of lies ruined my fucking life!"

Niki took another step closer and brought her shaking hand to his throat. She shook her head and spoke very slowly. "I don't know who the hell you are and I don't give two flying fucks about your life. You killed Megan Brandon and only you and I know how. Give me one reason why I shouldn't break your neck right now..."

Forster slipped his hand from his sleeve to reveal what he was holding. Niki frowned for a moment, not sure what it was. A handle of some kind with a wire running from its bottom up his sleeve and out of sight. A button under his thumb. A dangerous look in his eyes.

"One reason? Because I don't think you want to kill all these people." With a calm hand, he pulled Niki's hand from his throat and unbuttoned the top of his suit jacket. Niki could now see that the man was not at all chunky but was in fact carrying several foil packages taped to his chest rigged with wires and a detonator.

Niki swallowed. Son of a bitch. Very carefully, Forster squatted down and took the gun in his free hand, holding it now as a redundancy rather than a threat.

"You're going to get up on that table," he nodded towards Jessica's now empty spot, "and announce to everyone here that you did kill Megan Brandon and you also killed everyone who went missing two years ago at the battle on Atlantic Avenue."

Niki looked the man up and down anew. "How do you know about that? Who the fuck are you?"

Forster raised an eyebrow at first, as if this were a perfectly legitimate question, but instead of answering, he slapped his sleeve across her face, striking her jaw with the gun. No one walking by seemed to notice. "No more questions. You're going to rot in jail like you deserve, or all these people..." he looked around at the crowded mall, "are going to join your casualty list."

"You don't want to kill them," Niki said carefully, touching three fingers to the bruise on her jaw. "I don't know who you are, or how I ruined you life by being a Slayer, but it's not what I wanted, so can we just calm down and talk about—"

"You don't get to tell me to calm down!" Richard Forster said angrily, jabbing the gun in his sleeve into her ribs. He did take a moment, however, to cool down a little. When he had taken a breath, his voice was calmer, if still icy cold. "Maybe the others don't remember: Maybe you were able to convince them it was a hostage situation gone wrong or that we'd all been exposed to some... military drug, but I remember. I've spent the last two years remembering. Surely you remember." He cocked his head. "The hundreds of us recruited to fight in some demon army — an army you destroyed."

Niki frowned very slightly. "I remember."

Forster nodded spitefully. "You remember? You remember killing those soldiers — hundreds of humans as if we were nothing but animals?"

"You weren't human," Niki said distantly, "you were under the control of the Nosphorus."

In a motion which made Niki jump a little, Forster shoved the gun into his pocket and pulled the collar of his shirt open to reveal a thick scar where his shoulder met his neck. "A sword," he explained, his tone harsh and unforgiving. "A fucking sword nearly cut my head off. We weren't demons... we were human beings and it was your job as Slayer to protect us from harm. There was a cure, wasn't there? For the plague?" Niki opened her mouth to argue, but he pulled his shirt back up. "But you didn't try that, did you? No, just slaughter us all, that was your brilliant plan." He pulled the gun out of his pocket and drew the hammer back. "Well congratulations, you did it. You're a fucking hero."

Niki brought her hands up as he leveled the gun at her. "I never said I was a—"

"Shut up," Forster ordered. "I'll tell you what you are. You're a failure. You failed to stop all those people from getting infected — you failed to save them from bullets and swords. You're a waste of material, Niki Valtaine," he said, his voice acid. "You're going to get up on that table and tell everyone here just how much of a failure you are." He unbuttoned the rest of his jacket and glowing red numbers appeared on a small timer. "And you've got... five minutes and thirty two seconds to get your point across."

"They won't believe me," Niki protested as he raised the gun threateningly. Three and two make five, her mind screamed at her.

"Then you'd better be damn convincing," Forster replied.

"If they see your bomb—"

Forster calmly buttoned up his jacket. "If you say a word about the bomb, I guarantee that not one of them will get far enough away to live."

"What if they see the gun?" Niki said, thinking quickly.

"Of course they'll see the gun," Forster said evenly. "You'll be holding it." He slapped the gun into her hand and closed her fingers around it. "Fire one shot into the air to get their attention, then toss it on the ground or mall security will shoot you."

Niki looked at him as if he only just now had lost his mind. "You're fucking insane," she said as he delved into his pocket and pulled out another firearm.

"And don't try anything stupid," he said with a snarl. "I've got a spare." He leveled the second pistol at her stomach and prodded her in the ribs. "You might want to hurry: you've got less than five minutes now."

"And if I do?" Niki prompted at last, her heart pounding. "If I tell everyone... what're you going to do?"

Forster slowly reached up and took Niki by the collar of her black leather jacket. He pulled her close and stared deep into her, his throat tightening. "I'm going to go visit the grave of my wife," he said, holding back the sorrow, "the grave you sent her to, two years ago."

He let her go with a rough shove and the Slayer backed away into the crowd, having no choice but to head for Jessica's table.

--

Jessica Burkov, the seer of Hudson Mall, sat curled up in the women's bathroom, her hands over her head. She had been having difficulty reading people this week and up until ten minutes ago had thought she'd need to close for the day. Then she had received a simultaneous image from each and every person in the mall. And had nearly vomited.

She sat by the toilet, rocking back and forth, her face pale. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, they're all going to die..."

--

Loss for Words - Act 3

"Rachel!" Logan shouted, slamming the front door closed behind him. He marched into the kitchen to find her setting down the telephone. She was dressed to go out. "What the hell is this?" he demanded, slamming the document down on the counter.

"Your notice," she said simply. "I've filed for divorce."

Logan's mouth hung open for a moment, his mind racing. "Wha— why?"

"Why don't you ask Niki?" Rachel shrugged, obviously hiding the supreme anger on her own part. "And once you've asked her, why don't you roll over and fuck her a few more times?" She turned to the small telephone table and slid her hand into a manila envelope, pulling out a sheaf of enlarged photos. She tossed them onto the counter towards her husband where they slid apart to reveal several intimate encounters between the blond haired man and the blond haired woman.

Logan was speechless. He slowly reached down and lifted one of the pictures to look at it. In the corner was stamped a small W&H logo. "Where did you get these?" he asked, almost more offended than angry.

"I hired someone," she said casually. Rachel stared at him with a mixture of anger and regret as he stared at the photo in disbelief. "I told you never to see her again. I gave us another chance because Hanna deserves parents who love each other." There was a brief pause but he didn't look up. "With my job at the hospital, my lawyers say I'll have no problem... getting full custody."

It took a moment for the words to register. Logan slowly raised his gaze from the picture. "You are not taking Hanna away from me." When Rachel said nothing, Logan's anger and most of all his fear mounted. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you take my daughter!"

"Our daughter," Rachel said poisonously, "whose mother alone loves her enough not to jeopardize the family by screwing around."

Logan's mind was racing a mile a minute now. His thoughts were a jumble of chaos and anger. Just this morning he had kissed Hanna like he always did—

"With your criminal record, I'm also getting a restraining order against you," there was retribution now in Rachel's eyes, a cold fury that had finally found an outlet. A way to hurt him as deeply as he had hurt her. "You'll never see her again."

Logan reeled. He staggered back from the kitchen and tore out the front door to his little brown car. "This isn't over," he said quietly as the door closed behind him. This isn't over, this isn't over, this isn't—

Rachel slowly collected the photographs and slid them back into the envelope. She carefully closed the envelope and turned it over in her hands. She turned it over again. Turning it over once more, she couldn't keep from sobbing.

She tore the envelope and its contents across the middle and held her hands to her face, crying in anger and regret and at the loss of the life she had and at the cruel universe which had engineered the whole thing.

Logan sat behind the wheel of his car, swallowing hard, his face finally contorting in anguish, tears spilling down his cheeks. "This isn't over," he whispered hoarsely, fighting to keep from breaking down.

With a furious screeching of tires, the little brown car pulled out of the driveway and rocketed off down the street. He didn't know where he was going, but if he didn't do something, he felt like he would curl up and fade away. With the intensity of the power inside him, driven by grief, that is exactly what he felt would happen. So drive. Drive, he told himself.

Without thinking he turned right instead of left once he'd entered Manhattan, heading away from his office and the offices of Wolfram and Hart. He didn't know why, but he wasn't going there. Not now.

With tears drying on his cheeks, he pulled the car onto 37th Avenue East and stopped in front of the little stairwell which led down to the most familiar place his dark soul knew. He jumped out of the car, knowing now who he was looking for.

Niki. Those pictures... they weren't of him, he knew. It was Loki. It had to be. Niki had said — where the hell was she? He stormed down the stairs to the Nail Biter and shoved the door open. The clientele looked at him for a moment, then turned back to their business.

Not one of the faces that looked was Niki's. The place was still packed. Whistler, in a back corner, avoided his gaze. Logan didn't care. He didn't want to talk right now. He wanted a drink. He wanted a drink very, very badly.

Halfrek looked out from the shadows of the darkest corner of the Biter as Logan sat himself down at the bar. She shifted her gaze haughtily back to her companion. Taking hold of her champagne flute, she raised it and heard it clink with that of her companion.

"To vengeance," Hallie said with no measure of true enjoyment.

Her companion nodded with satisfaction. "To vengeance."

--

Niki's hands were trembling as she walked through the crowd to the table Jessica had used as her palm reading headquarters. The gun was hot in her hand from being tight in Forster's fist for who knows how long. It was heavier than it looked. She had never been very good at public speaking. She was the drummer – the one in the background that you could never really see, doing all the work with wooden sticks.

She passed the handgun to her other hand, wiping the sweat from her palm onto her jeans. Nervously, she stepped up onto the table. Amazingly, nobody noticed.

A little girl wearing a bright pink T-shirt skipped along beside her mother, holding her hand happily. Niki blinked. The seconds ticked by of which she knew there were a finite number.

After an indeterminate number of heartbeats and lifetimes, she raised the gun above her head and fired a single shot into the air. It was louder than she had imagined it would be.

The little girl in the pink shirt cried and was swept into her mother's arms as a sort of shockwave sent the crowd moving away from the source of the shot.

Niki blinked, her mind growing numb. It was so unreal, looking down at them like this. They were all staring at her, their eyes wide. She slowly brought her arm down and wanted to let the gun drop, but her hand wouldn't open. She looked at it, shook it a little, but the fingers on that hand suddenly refused to accept her authority.

In seconds, a mall security guard was shouting at her. His words, she assumed, were something along the lines of "drop the gun," and "put your hands behind your head," but Niki wasn't really listening to him.

She should have been staring at the man with the bomb on his chest who was ready to turn this crowd of people into ashes, but instead she was staring at the little girl in the pink shirt and time was slowing down.

They couldn't all die here... she hadn't fought the horned demon yet. Unless everyone died but her. Couldn't the girl in the pink shirt live too? Wouldn't that be okay?

"Ma'am!" the guard shouted between shouts into his radio. "Put down the gun and put your hands where I can see them!"

"I... uh... I have some things to say," Niki said distantly, speaking to the little girl who was crying louder than the security guard was shouting.

"Everyone get away from the table!" the guard hollered, trying to shove people farther away and barking into his small radio. He wasn't armed and was going to have to wait for the police.

"Uh, first," Niki said, squinting uncertainly as if reading from a distant cue card. I'm not a failure. "I want to say that I'm a failure. And that I really regret having... killed so many people since I was called."

She glanced over at the spot where Forster had been standing and it took her several seconds of staring to realize he wasn't there anymore. She looked a little to the left, then to the right before spotting him. He raised his eyebrows to let her know she was running out of time and he wasn't impressed.

"I killed Megan Brandon," Niki said heavily, the words coming out like the feeling of throwing up. She grimaced a little at the taste it left in her mouth. "I... uh... killed Megan Brandon." She blinked, finally looking back to Forster to see if he was satisfied. He was not.

Niki looked down to the gun in her hand, annoyed that she hadn't dropped it yet. Forster was right: if she didn't drop it before the cops came, they'd probably shoot her. There was something on the butt of the gun, a string through the little hole and a piece of paper on the string. Looking up again, the security guard caught her attention. He was trying to calm somebody down. A woman.

"I killed some people two years ago," Niki continued as if in a dream, "it was on Atlantic Avenue. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." She swallowed, frowning as the woman by the security guard turned around.

"You have to get these people out of here," the woman was saying frantically, her tone urgent and pleading, "they're all going to die!"

"Jessica?" Niki said with confusion. "I thought I killed you!" This elicited some gasps and mutters from the crowd which began to back up some more from the crazy punk with the gun.

"Niki!" Jessica turned on her, "come down, please don't kill them!"

Niki was shaking her head, none of this making sense. "What are you talking about? I'm not going to—"

"Yes you are!" Jessica shouted, the security guard pulling her back by the shoulders. "You're going to kill them all!"

--

Logan slammed the shot glass upside down on the bar. Without hesitation, the barkeep filled another for him and Logan threw it back with a grimace.

"That's fuckin' tough," the young vamp said beside him, a tall glass of pig's blood spritzer before him. "My wife was the first person I sired," he indicated a table in the back where a young vampire woman was getting comfortable with several demons. "Biggest damn mistake in my unlife."

"She's going to fucking take my kid," Logan said as he shook his head to clear the effects of the shots. "Just — out of the blue, you know? We were fine, since, dammit!" He grabbed the bottle from the barkeep and poured himself another measure.

"Invite me into your place," the vamp offered, "I'll take her out for you." He laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "Thought I'd kicked human blood once and for all... you know, to keep the goddam Slayer off my back, but then I got my hands on this..." he rolled up his sleeve to show the silver IXI bracelet. "So, seriously, I could take care of the old lady, no problem."

"Nah," Logan sank down a little lower in his depression. "Once I invited you in, you'd just eat my kid too. You vamps are fucking predictable."

The vampire scoffed. "Jeez Louise, I was tryin' to help. I don't have a lot of skills, you know? Used to be a big computer programmer for that company... you know? That big company? But they fucking fired me... So the very next night this jerkoff bites me and has the gall to let me drink his blood, like he's Satan's gift to—"

"I won't let her take my Hanna," Logan said sternly, squaring his shoulders and sitting up a little straighter. "I'm a fucking lawyer... I've got a firm. I can fight this."

"Yeah," the vamp said with a grin, "fight it! Don't take that crap! If there's one thing I know about women, they—"

"I could win the suit— my criminal record fits on a post-it, and it wasn't violent or anything..." he frowned. "Well, it was vehicular manslaughter, so it was kinda violent. But the guy was a goddam watcher! He was going to take Hanna away from me!"

"Damn," the vamp said with raised eyebrows. "Everybody's after the bite-size, aren't they? How come?"

Logan rolled his eyes and threw back another shot, slamming it down with the others. He knew he was far too drunk to be talking about this, but he was also too drunk to care. "I don't know," he said with irritation. "The British dickhead wanted her because... she's all chosen and shit, and my wife," he held up a finger, "is just too used to getting everything she wants... yeah..." he blinked away a little confusion. This was Rachel he was talking about, right? "Yeah... she's got her own job... got her own friends she doesn't tell me about... she has this investigator who's been taking pictures of shit..." he glanced around the bar again, searching for Niki's face. "Son of a bitch. The woman even went to my old law firm to file for divorce. Fucking insulting."

"Looks like you were on your way to losing the pants in that marriage a while before the divorce," the vamp said with a little amusement.

"You wanna see the fucking pants?" Logan grabbed the bottle of tequila from the barkeep which he had been working away at, one shot at a time, and pulled out the stopper. With a flick of his wrist, he doused the vamp with the clear liquid. "Here's the pants," he said through clenched teeth.

His eyes lighting up, a spark appeared before the soaked vamp, jumping onto his damp shirt. A blue wave of flame instantly enveloped him and the vamp jumped from his stool screaming and trying to brush the flame from him. Within seconds he was dust.

Logan spun back around to the barkeep, his eyes still glowing. "You better have another bottle of that back there..."

--

"Niki!" Jessica finally escaped the grip of the security guard and got to the edge of the table, "don't listen to him— there is no bomb! I know what you saw — what you're doing, but you have to stop!"

Niki looked down at the gun again. There was the little piece of paper tied to the handle. B, it said. Exhibit B. "He's standing over there—" the Slayer looked up to where Forster had been standing. He was no longer there. Looking a little to the left, she spotted him again. He was shaking his head and his suit coat was unbuttoned again. Niki could see the timer counting down the seconds. One minute and ten seconds left.

"No," Jessica insisted, taking Niki gently by the ankle as she stood at the edge of the table. "You're still being deceived, there's no Richard Forster: there's only you with the gun, and if you don't come down you're going to get everyone killed!"

"Where did I get the gun?" Niki said distantly, trying again to drop it. It wouldn't go.

"You stole the gun," the seer insisted. "At the trial, don't you remember? When the demons attacked, you went to the bench and took the gun."

Niki looked down at the little tag on the gun. Exhibit B. This was the gun used to shoot agent Harrison. Snakeface's gun. She looked back towards Forster with a frown. Again he wasn't where he had last been. Now she couldn't find him in the growing crowd. People were pushing and shoving to see the spectacle.

"Niki, put down the gun," Jessica pleaded. "All these things you're saying... you don't need to say them— there is no bomb."

Niki swallowed. Looking from the gun to the seer, her eyes caught the red of the timer. Forster was standing right behind the security guard. The guard was talking hurriedly to another officer in uniform.

"She's trying to talk her down," the guard was saying. "The police will be here in a minute."

Niki watched the timer. Less than a minute. Less than a minute and all these people would be ashes. She looked down at the gun which shot Harrison. Had she taken it? She didn't remember. Ashes. The Cremator strikes again.

"I can't put the gun down," Niki said honestly. "And we don't have much time. I have to say—" she swallowed. "I've killed hundreds of people, and if I don't hurry the hell up, I'll kill you all too."

"No!" Jessica shouted. "It's all a lie! Just get down from the table and everything will be fine!"

"I'm really..." she frowned as her throat tightened. The little girl in the pink shirt was whimpering now, unsure of the danger. "...really sorry about everything. I just wanted to live my life. I didn't know how much I'd hurt other people... I wish I could take it all back. I wish I had never been called as the Slayer." She looked down at the gun, then tried to think in her head. How many seconds were—

With a loud bang, a gunshot scattered the crowd again. The two security guards dove to the ground and people began running here and there, unsure about anything anymore. The little girl in the pink shirt was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Niki looked down to see Jessica's face become blank. The seer's features melted to the scaly visage of the demon Niki had killed in the warehouse. It took a smug step back from the table and crossed its arms, flashing a little smirk.

"Fine, you win," with a little nod of acknowledgment, it dissolved into thin air before the Slayer and the bustling crowd's eyes.

Most of the crowd, however, were not looking at the Slayer anymore or the demon. They were looking at the short, balding man in the brown suit. The crowd parted and Niki hopped down from the table to get a closer look.

Richard Forster lay on his back, his mouth open and a pool of dark blood behind his head where the bullet had exited. The gun was still clutched in one hand, but the timer on his stomach had stopped at five seconds. Niki swallowed, her face pale. She felt a little dizzy.

Assimilate later, she commanded herself, leave now. As the crowd pushed and jockeyed for the best position from which to see the dead bomber, Niki slipped away, finally pulling the gun from her trembling hand and dumping it in the nearest garbage can. The irony of it failed to amuse her.

She shook her head. What the fuck had just happened? Forster was real... he was a corpse on the floor. The gun was real... Jessica. Was Jessica real? Was she— had she been a Deceiver the whole time? Richard Forster... With a frown, Niki recalled having seen the name before. On the wall... in the cave. She was judged for the death of Richard Forster. And his wife.

The Slayer slowly lowered her head into her hands. She wanted to cry, but she felt too miserable to conjure up the energy necessary. All she wanted to do was forget. Forget today, forget yesterday and forget the memory she had of her death. Forget it all.

--

"It's not fucking fair!" his hand came down on the bar and the multitude of shot glasses jumped.

"You give and you give and you give," the vamp girl was nodding. "I was his perfect little wife for three years, then the little geek gets fired and sired in the same weekend! Am I free? No! He comes home and then it's all eternity and scourge of New York, and suddenly there's all this 'we' talk—"

"I fought to protect them," Logan said his eyes on the little glass mayhem on the bar's surface. "I risked a hell of a lot to keep them safe and... happy. Hanna would be dead so many times over if it wasn't for me..."

"But even undead, he's still a geek!" the vamp girl, widow to Logan's earlier drinking buddy, was sharing the last of a bottle of Jack Daniels with the ranting conjurer.

"And Rachel," Logan scoffed. "If I hadn't enchanted her wedding ring, she would be so dead right now. I mean seriously. There is so much crap going on that she doesn't get... but no, a couple of Polaroids and flush: fourteen years of marriage down the toilet."

"Who could blame a girl for getting around? Fun is fun and it wasn't as though he was destined for anything but Slayer practice anyway." The girl grimaced as the shot went down. "I'm glad he's gone. I'm glad you finally taught him a lesson."

Logan raised his glass to that. "To lessons." He drank. "Damn, I wish someone would teach Rachel a lesson. You know she doesn't know the first thing about surviving in this world... I mean, what would she have done if she'd found Hanna outside with those vamps?" He scoffed. "Called the cops!"

"It's amazing people like her are still alive," the vamp agreed, pouring herself another. "And she has the audacity—" she struggled over the word, "to call you unfaithful. Take everything you have!"

Logan grimaced, but not from the J.D. "Someone should make her pay," he said under his breath, his voice trembling. "I'd give anything if someone taught her a lesson."

The vamp raised her glass again. "To giving anything," she toasted.

Logan looked up at the girl for the first time since she sat down. "To giving everything."

Tossing back her drink, the vamp slid down into unconsciousness, laying her head on her arms on the bar. Logan patted her on the back and stood.

"I gotta take a piss," he said a little woozily. Staggering to one of the doors at the back of the bar, he didn't notice as several of the demons began arguing in raised voices.

--

Michael took a little breath, running his hand over his short hair and adjusting the collar of his white shirt. He had found another tie for the occasion — not the blue one, but a subtle grey and he wore a pinstripe suit coat over it all.

With a little nod to himself, he raised his fist and rapped on the door. After scant seconds, there were sounds of movement behind the door and a few seconds later the door opened.

Rachel Kilpatrick forced a pleasant smile onto her face. It was clear she had been crying and was busy trying to hide it. She opened the door wider and forgot to speak for several seconds as she took in the sight of Michael in his suit.

"You're early," she said at last, glancing at her watch. She had obviously been waiting most of the day to go out, considering she was already dressed and nearly ready herself. She wore a long black skirt and a sleeveless burgundy blouse. Her brown hair was arranged stylishly around her shoulders. "Come on in, just let me get my things and we'll go..."

Michael nodded gratefully as he stepped over the threshold of the house. He glanced to the left and saw Hanna sitting in the living room in baggy jeans and T-shirt watching television. She waved to him with a smile, but said nothing.

"Our reservation isn't till seven thirty," he said as she went up the stairs. "We don't have to leave just yet..."

"You're going out on a date?" Hanna called from the living room. "With my mom?" She sounded a little appalled, mostly at the thought of romance at her mother's age rather than the threat to her parents' relationship. Even though they had tried to hide it, Hanna had known from the beginning that her 'happy family' was a front for her sake. It touched her that both her mom and dad went to such trouble to pretend everything was fine in front of her, but seeing her mom with Michael made her just a little uncomfortable. "Does dad know?"

"Hanna," Rachel called scoldingly from the top of the stairs. "This isn't a date. We're just friends going out for dinner. Your father's busy tonight."

"Yeah, right," the girl said under her breath, turning her attention back to The Twilight Zone.

Rachel at last came down the stairs, imperceptibly more ready than when she had gone up. She moved to the kitchen and took hold of her purse, hurrying back to the door where she stopped and frowned. She glanced into the living room, then back up the stairs. "Michael?" she said uncertainly. There was no answer.

Something heavy pounded into the door and she let out a little yelp. Hanna jumped up from the couch in the living room and ran to her mother's side as the pounding continued.

"Mom..?" Both mother and daughter stared at the solid wood door, an unspeakable shape moving behind the small frosted window.

Rachel stood in her nicest clothes, clutching her purse as some unidentifiable shape pounded on the front door. After staring at it, frozen, with wide eyes for several seconds beside her daughter, the pounding stopped. Rachel slowly opened her mouth. "Hanna... call nine one—"

The door exploded inward and they both screamed.

--

Logan staggered out of the washroom feeling weak and tired. He just wanted to curl up in bed and go to sleep for a year. He straightened, however when he saw the ruckus which had erupted at the center table and around the bar.

Two tall, vaguely lizard-like demons were shouting and threatening each other, occasionally slapping the other's drink off the table between them. Logan moved around them and the spectators who were gathering in case a fight should break out.

Logan sat himself down at the bar and a little bulldog of a demon kept fingering the barkeep and hissing that he wasn't doing his job. The vampire chick Logan had been drinking with was sulking now that no one was paying her tab.

"What's all the heat about?" Logan asked her, reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels. She merely sneered and slipped off the stool, finding a table farther away. Instead, Logan took the barkeep's arm and asked him. "What's going on?"

The demon with the dishcloth over his shoulder opened his hands apologetically. "Sorry, pal, they're usually more professional about all this, but you were kind of nonspecific." He pointed to the two fighting demons at the center table. "See, the M'fashniks were trying to decide what qualified as the 'anything' you'd give... and then they started one-upping each other, and now we've got a full blown price war going on."

Logan frowned. "Wait... what? They're arguing about anything?"

The barkeep nodded. "And this guy," he thumbed the bulldog demon and the three other similar demons who were hissing and muttering angrily at the bartender himself, "he and his friends are pissed because where they come from it's my job to put you on a list and contact everyone and shit like that. They just don't like that the Werlech took it first." He looked at the little pug faced barflies. "But it's not my fault that they're a little slow." The demon growled.

Logan closed his eyes and shook his head trying to make sense of it. "Wait... go back. The Werlech took the what?"

The barkeep blinked. "The hit. The Werlech demon took the hit you put out." He began to pour Logan another drink. "Personally, I would have done it a little more discretely, since the Werlech demon isn't exactly cheap. You did say you'd give anything so I wouldn't want to be you when that son of a bitch comes to collect..."

"I said I'd give anything?" Logan said with confusion. "Wait... a hit on who?"

The demon nodded. "I agree — it was a poor choice of words, and now you've got my customers breaking my glasses. Thanks a lot."

Logan turned around as the two M'fashnik demons overturned the table and began shouting and shoving each other. Suddenly Logan's eyes widened. He spun back around and took the barkeep by the shirt collar, pulling him in close and breathing hard.

"A hit on who?"

The demon with the Jack Daniels frowned a little. "On your wife. You did say you've give anything... What kind of a bar did you think this was? Half the people here are hitmen and everyone here is open for business." Logan slowly sank down on the stool again, his mouth hanging open.

Just then a sulking Slayer slid into the stool beside him. She snatched one of the many shot glasses and tapped it for the barkeep to fill.

"Hit me."

--

The sun was now setting in the West, bleeding and staining the sky bright red. The sounds of screams and demon snarls had died away. Hanna hid behind her bedroom door, her eyes wide, her breathing fast and shallow.

The big thing —she hadn't spent too long looking— had chased them up the stairs and had taken a swipe at Rachel. Hanna had ducked away and had heard the chase continue down the hall to her parents' bedroom — but she had been too terrified to move or even call out.

Now everything was quiet. Was it too quiet? Wouldn't mom have called out if everything were alright? Where was dad? These thoughts, swimming around and around in the girl's mind kept her frozen behind the door, her eyes searching its bleak surface as she scanned the silence.

After several minutes, she slowly pushed the door away from the wall and stepped out of the corner, walking on the edges of her sock feet to avoid making noise. She looked out of her bedroom doorway down the hall and saw the orange light cast out of the other doorways from the setting sun.

Swallowing hard, she started down the hall to her parents' bedroom at the end. She could see the door was slightly ajar and a wedge of red-orange light fled out into the hall. Her feet stepped as gently as she could make them, avoiding the places in the floor where it creaked.

When she reached up to brush a strand of hair from her eyes, she realized her hand was shaking. It was moving almost as fast as her heart as she moved inexorably forward. Unable to either make a fist or keep her hands still, she let them tremble at her sides, wiping the cold sweat onto her jeans.

The silence screamed at her. When she finally reached the end of the hall, her gut was churning. Everything was wrong. She couldn't possibly find beyond this door that everything was okay. With a shaking hand, she reached out and pushed the door open further, looking into the bedroom lit with the bloody dying rays of the sun.

The back of the creature was turned to her, its leathery skin the color of charcoal. It held the body by its shoulders and was inhaling deeply from the mouth, its eyes rolling back in pleasure. With a thud, it dropped the corpse to the floor and snorted in satisfaction.

Hanna's eyes widened in horror and she clapped a hand over her mouth to cover the scream. The little squeak that did escape caught the attention of the massive Werlech demon as it finished collecting its fee from the body at its feet.

With a snort from animal nostrils, it turned its great head and its two pronged horns scraped the ceiling. Looking at the stunned girl for the space of a heartbeat, it opened its eyes wider and bellowed a blood-curdling animal call that gripped Hanna's heart like a vice.

The girl turned and dashed back down the hallway as fast as her legs could carry her, tears of terror clinging to her lashes. It was instinct which made her turn back into her room instead of taking off down the stairs and out the door: the privacy of her bedroom seemed to promise her the most impenetrable protection.

Slamming the door closed with a sound of panic and terror, she realized she was trapped here and the footsteps of the thing down the hall were growing closer. Her hands trembling furiously, she searched her room for a hiding place and her gaze settled on her closet.

She pulled the door open, throwing aside the outfits which hung like a thick curtain behind it, and slid as far back into the darkness as she could, pulling the door closed behind her. Wriggling back behind a tall box, she pulled her knees up to her chest and cried silently in terror.

It was in that darkness and terror that she came to realize that she was not alone in the closet. With a little yelp, she felt movement next to her and looked up to see in the near blackness the familiar outline of the face.

"Michael?" she said, her voice trembling. He took one of her hands in both of his and held it tight to keep it from trembling.

"I'm here," he said gently, a little sadness in his voice.

Hanna was still breathing fast; her eyes searching for his in the inky darkness. From behind the fabric and the closet door, Hanna could hear the sounds of the demon entering her room. It tossed objects here and there, slamming its fists through her furniture.

"Are you going to save me?" she asked in a desperate whisper, her hand shaking despite Michael's comforting grip. She felt both his hands on hers and she could tell he wasn't scared at all.

In the darkness, as the demon approached the closet door, a wing of silky white feathers wrapped around Hanna and held her close as Michael laid her head on his chest. She felt his steady, strong heartbeat.

"Yes, I am."

--

Loss for Words - Act 4

Niki watched Logan run out the door. She frowned and lifted the shot glass to her lips, letting the drink burn down her throat. The door slammed behind the conjurer and Niki blinked away the sting in her throat.

"What's his problem?" The Slayer asked with a disinterested tone.

"Whistler still paying your tab?" the barkeep asked, holding the bottle back just in case.

Niki glanced back and saw Whistler talking to a couple of demons, his back turned to her. She snatched the bottle from the demon behind the bar. "Damn right he is. He owes me, big time."

"What could Whistler possibly have done?" the barkeep asked with skeptical amusement.

"That little..." she took a calming breath. "That guy is the worst demon I've ever dealt with." She threw back her next shot with a sound of satisfaction. "The day I've had — you wouldn't believe."

"Try me," the barkeep smirked, capping the bottle with his thumb.

Niki shrugged. "You ever heard of the Deceivers?" The demon made a noncommittal shrug. Niki nodded as if this were enough. "Well, I made some enemies a couple of years ago... you know, when I saved the world. So one of 'em decides to get me back."

"Vengeance Demon?" the barkeep asked. "They're trouble. I'd keep 'em out of my bar altogether, but they have expensive taste in alcohol and I've got bills to pay."

Niki raised an eyebrow and tapped her glass again. "No... not vengeance demon. Regular human... or maybe he was a demon or something — I don't know. The point is—" she tipped her head back and emptied the shot into her stomach, slamming the glass back down on the bar. "Whew. Point is, this pissed off little bitch of a man summons these Deceivers to poke their noses into my life and fuck everything up." She laughed hollowly. "I don't have a dollar to my name and not a friend in the world. All because of a bunch of crap and some bullshit advice... given to me by whom?"

The barkeep frowned. "Whistler?"

Niki nodded. "Yeah. He tells me to go find this seer. So I find her, turns out she's actually a Deceiver who's been fucking with me the whole time. But I don't find this out until it's too late, of course: when I'm standing face to face with the little runt who planned the whole thing."

"You don't sound very happy," the barkeep noted. "You're here, aren't you? Did you win?"

Niki slumped a little lower in her stool, fingering the full shot glass. "Yeah," she muttered.

"Well, there you go. Congratulations." He poured her another drink as she emptied the next one. "So why do you look so depressed? Not that my business is complaining..."

Niki sighed and slid her hand over the glass to block a refill. "It was just so fucking disappointing, you know? All the prophecy and destiny and life and death and meaning and shit... I just expected there to be more, you know?"

The barkeep's face contorted to a look of incredulity. "You... wanted an apocalypse?"

The Slayer didn't react for several seconds. "Well... kinda, yeah."

He pulled a fresh glass from behind the bar and poured her another. "You're weird."

"Niki?"

The Slayer turned around and saw Whistler slowly walking toward her. The look on his face made her gut turn. Uh oh...

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his eyes fierce and his expression shocked.

Niki's eyes shifted uncomfortably. "Uhh..." she glanced back to her drink and the barkeep. "Am I supposed to be somewhere else?"

Whistler looked to the old beer-motif clock in the corner of the bar. His expression became more worrisome with each passing second. The demon slowly looked off into the distant nothing and walked numbly forward to take a seat next to the Slayer.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, as if talking to himself.

Niki frowned and pursed her lips, unable to come up with an answer. She swallowed, fearing anything which made Whistler act this way. Where was his smug confidence? Where was his knowing smirk?

After a long moment, the demon in the plum jacket turned and looked at her with sad eyes, a vast and tragic realization seeming to have dawned on him. "Why didn't you go to Logan's house?" he asked gently, his eyes compelling her answer more than his voice.

Seeing him like this made Niki afraid to the core. "I— I met the Deceivers... I got a guy killed in the mall... I wanted to have a drink." She looked into his eyes, asking him with a look if she had done something wrong. "Why would I go to Logan's house?" the question was delicate and careful, as if she were afraid of the answer.

Whistler stared into her, as if he saw her for the very first time and what he saw was disappointing. "Because he was the one you trusted." The demon blinked away the look and turned to the bar, taking the bottle of Jack Daniels and pouring himself a snifter full. He looked forlornly into the drink and swallowed. How could this be?

"You were meant," he said at long last, betraying a timeless and sacred trust... he lowered his gaze as if he couldn't finish, then looked the Slayer hard in the eyes again. "You were meant to go to Logan's house," he said with regret. "You would have met there a demon which Logan himself had sent to kill his wife."

Niki's frown grew more intense as Whistler described in the most plain language her planned destiny.

"You were meant to fight the demon," he said, almost apologetically, "and to die in battle with it. It was meant to take you by the throat and suffocate you—"

"Stop," Niki turned away, resting her forearms on the edge of the bar and bowing her head as the memory of her death came flooding back. But the demon did not stop.

"It was meant to bend down and suck your soul from your dying body, as it does with most it kills. You died," Whistler said emphatically as Niki looked back up with tears in her eyes, "on the living room floor of Logan's house, defending his wife and daughter."

Niki angrily wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "How could I save them if I was dead?"

Whistler's regretful expression became pained. "Why do you think the Council wanted you dead so badly? Their seer saw that your death came almost too late to save the next Chosen One. Hanna."

Whistler took a deep breath. He knew by now that it was too late. Logan had played his part all too well. It was Niki who had failed.

"When you died," he said quietly, "Hanna would have been called. She would have taken the demon by surprise and killed it."

Niki slowly looked around the bar. She recalled Logan having run out in almost a panic. The whole bar seemed to be staring at her with disapproval. Well done, it seemed to say with disappointment. No. It was more than the bar. It was everything behind the walls and above the ceiling. The whole world was shaking its head.

"Are you saying they're dead?" she asked Whistler at last, fresh tears glittering in her eyes. Excuse after excuse poured through her mind. How was I supposed to know... but she just closed her eyes and shook her head. It wasn't about choice. It wasn't a choice she had made which had killed someone, like Forster's wife — it wasn't an enemy plot, like had killed Megan Brandon... It's you.

--

Logan pounded up the stairs from the bar to the grey twilight street, his breath quivering as he tried not to think about what was happening to Rachel– to Hanna. He got to his car, his mind numb. Car. Car. Rachel had wanted a divorce. She would have taken off her ring. The only thing which could have protected her. Car... Car. Something about a car.

He slammed his hand on the roof above the driver's door. What do I do now? he demanded of himself. He couldn't think, he was so worried. Drive. Drive. Fighting back the creeping horror of what he had done, he nodded and tried the handle. Locked.

"DAMMIT!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. He couldn't deal with this. Slamming his fist on the roof of the little brown car again, he ignored the stinging of tears and tried to think rationally. Keys. He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out his keys, grabbing for the car key and dropping the whole set to the street.

With a pounding heart, he dropped to the street to pick them up again, feeling along the dark pavement for an eternity before fumbling as he found the correct one and shoved it into the lock. As he twisted the key to unlock the door, the spark of a thought occurred to him. You don't need to drive, idiot. Teleport.

Quickly mashing the tears from his eyes, he tried to compose himself and envision the twist of light and the feeling of disappearing. Nothing. Swallowing, he blinked a few times, then closed his eyes to try again. The tendons standing out on his neck, he focused every scrap of his haggard mind on the simple task he had performed a dozen times before.

"FUCK!" he cried, hastily pulling the door open and jumping behind the wheel. He fumbled again with the ignition key and turned it. The car chugged and wheezed as the various deities upon which he had called to keep the car working began to abandon him.

With a clang, the muffler and tailpipe hit the pavement. Ignoring this, his teeth on edge, Logan continued to turn the ignition, again. Again. Again. He slammed the steering wheel. He turned the ignition again and heard something pop. Ignore it. Just drive. He turned the ignition again and with a rattling and a clunk, all noise from the engine stopped.

Nearly hyperventilating and no longer able to hold back the tears of desperation, Logan crossed his arms on the steering wheel and cried at last.

--

Whistler turned away to at last break the disappointed gaze he had been holding on Niki Valtaine, the vampire slayer. The one. Chosen.

He wanted to feel sorry for her. Wanted sympathy to alter his disappointment, his resentment at her failure. But it wasn't there. Probably the thought of Rachel and Hanna being slaughtered was getting in the way. Probably the pain Logan must be feeling for playing his part. He must never know Niki's failure.

"Hanna was important, Niki," Whistler said trying not to sound as miserable as she looked or he felt. "Something is coming that you weren't meant to stop. Even if you'd done everything right, you weren't meant to stop it. But now..." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what to say."

Niki closed her eyes, her ordeal today already forgotten. How could she have been so arrogant? How could she have thought that was it? Given up so quickly? Turned to the sick comforts— she slashed her hand across the bar and sent the bottle of Jack Daniels to the floor with a crash.

There was a long silence as it completely settled in on the Slayer exactly how much she had fucked up. Just existing — doing what came naturally; being who she was had overridden some sort of bloody cosmic plan...

"I have to go," Whistler said at last. The decision struck him hard and he wasn't eager to leave when Niki was hurting, but he had no choice. The plan had been in his keeping and now it was fucked six ways from Sunday. He was no longer needed, nor particularly wanted to be the scapegoat for this mess. When the Council learned Hanna was dead...

"Where are you going?" Niki asked desperately, standing up and wiping the tears from her eyes. Day in and day out she complained about the state of her life. She had never considered how much she truly had left to lose. She considered it now as the demon who had been like an older brother to her slid his fedora on and turned back from the door.

"I'm sorry, Knicks," he said sincerely, his eyes troubled as they tried to feel for her. "There's nothing here for me anymore."

Fresh tears spilled over the Slayer's cheeks as she resisted the sudden impulse to take him in her arms and beg him for forgiveness— beg him not to leave. "Aren't you going to give me some encouraging words or wisdom or something?" she thought quickly, trying to sound hopeful but making no attempt to stop the tears.

Whistler's eyes finally found a trace of pity and he forced a little smile onto his lips, but succeeded only in looking more sad and full of regret. He stepped towards her and slid his hands around her waist, regretting how much it seemed to her like he was going to offer a comforting hug. He was not.

He slid a hand into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled up napkin. Carefully unfolding it, he pressed it into her hand and saw her look down at it. She recognized it as the Word the Shadow Men and the Council had threatened to use against her — the Tuareg word which Whistler had written down...

"It won't make everything better, will it?" Niki looked back up and Whistler said nothing. After a long minute, he leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth as a tear ran down her cheek.

"Take care of yourself, kid." Touching the brim of his fedora, he turned and left the Nail Biter for the last time.

--

Logan sat in the back of the taxi, his fingers working at the edge of the seat's upholstery. He was empty of tears now. The urgency had left him as the minutes had passed and the quiet truth had found him that he was already too late.

He sat in silence in the back of the cab as the taxi took its time getting onto the Sunrise Highway and once there, time seemed to stretch into forever. There was a calm now, as last night's rain picked up again. The grey of the world outside the car flashed by in silence as the car made its way out of Manhattan towards Freeport.

Logan watched the rivulets of rain as they slowly found their paths across his window, going nowhere, carried by the wind. Headlights flashed by, electrifying the little streak of water and passing his shadow over everything. He slowly reached up to the window and touched the glass where one of the drops was, his gaze fixed on it.

One of his favorite lullabies was drifting wistfully from the static of the oldies station. 59th Street Bridge. The melody floated about the inside of the car and followed Logan as he found himself walking through the wet grass towards his front door.

_Slow down, you're moving too fast. Got to make the moment last, just—_ The door lay in pieces inside the front hall. The rain which had gotten in had formed a little pool around where Rachel and Hanna's shoes were.

Logan calmly walked up the stairs in the dark. He could hear the rain picking up outside, the pattering on the windows increasing, but the wind was silent. —_kickin' down the cobble stones, lookin' for fun and feeling groovy._

Logan looked down the long dark hallway towards his bedroom. The door was wide open, but inside was dark as a tomb. He took a step and noticed Hanna's bedroom door was also wide open. Turning and stepping inside, he saw signs of violence and struggle. There were holes punched in the walls and things were scattered across the floor. _Ain't ya got no rhymes for me?_

Logan walked carefully over the mess, disturbing nothing, the mellow song drifting all over everything like sunlight playing on a lake. There was a swish outside as a car went through a puddle. Logan slowly pushed the closet door all the way open, sliding aside the clothes hanging there.

He blinked.

_I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep, I'm dappled and drowsy and ready for sleep. Let the morning time drop all its petals on me, life I love you. _

_All is groovy._

What Logan saw inside the closet tried to touch the last of him that was human. He stared at it for a long time in the dim evening light. The wind picked up outside. He reached down beside it and picked up something.

It was long and white and silky smooth. He brushed his finger along its fine edge. A feather.

He blinked.

Turning from the shadow, he slowly got down on his knees in the middle of the chaos of his beloved's bedroom. He sank down onto his side, curling his knees up close to his chest. He held the feather before him as the rain came down.

The wind picked up and he faded away.

--

Niki Valtaine looked at the napkin and the Tuareg word written there. It might have been easier if she could have pronounced it, but it just looked like a bunch of shapes and lines to her. Something in her feared it, though. The part of her that was the Slayer. The part of her that had failed. The demon inside deserved the worst fate Niki could conceive, but she would have to settle for forcing it to live inside her for the rest of her life.

She slowly tore the napkin down the center and stuffed the shreds into the brandy snifter filled with Jack Daniels. The ink began to run and soon there was nothing but a blue smear.

An electric chill went up the back of her neck. The vampire approached from the door and stood behind the stool next to her. Niki turned, wiping the tears from her cheeks but unable to hide the redness.

The vamp seemed to take little interest in her. He wore black pants and a black T-shirt with a red button down shirt hanging open. Over it all was a familiar black duster. This he removed and shook the rain from it, touching his bleached white spikes to draw the water from them and keep it from running down into his eyes.

Niki swallowed, turning back to the newly opened whiskey and pouring two drinks.

The vamp folded his duster and laid it over the bar, tapping a cigarette out and lighting it with a steel lighter.

When Niki slid the measure of whiskey over to him she finally caught his attention. He looked her up and down for a minute, taking a long drag. Finally he turned back to face the bar and took hold of the shot.

"Thanks for lookin' after my jacket," he said tonelessly, throwing back the whiskey and setting the glass quietly back on the bar. "Don't remember quite so many bullet holes, though."

The Slayer didn't even touch her drink. "You want it back?"

The vamp made a noncommittal shrug. "Never really liked it anyway. Got me a better one now."

Niki nodded.

The two sat and drank in silence: What was there to say?


End file.
